Judgment
by Renflower21
Summary: Accusations of corruption, multiple homicides, interdepartmental pressure, an arson case, a missing person - What could be behind it all? A few NYC investigators are determined to find out. Police AU, pairings inside.
1. The Young Detective Is On The Case

"What do you think, Firo?"

Two men in plainclothes stood in the middle of an abandoned warehouse stained with blood, a body laying against the far wall. A small group of crime scene investigators gathered around the corpse, taking samples and swabbing the stains on the floor. Two uniformed officers sealed off the area with police tape, and one more stood by to give his report as first on scene. Other than the dead body of an older man and the blood everywhere, the room was empty save for some rotting wooden crates off to the opposite side and the trash littering the ground from homeless drifters that made their stay in the warehouse days ago.

The taller of the team, Maiza Avaro, held a notepad in his hands, a few illegible notes scrawled across its open page. He surveyed the area with a calm expression, as if the horror of the murder glanced right off of him. Only a close look at his eyes would reveal the glimmer of regret that meant he was still human enough for the job. Many men lost some part of themselves, the soft tissue of their heart calcified, over the years when working as a homicide detective. Maiza was in no danger of such a fate. He was one of the older members of the police department, and one of the few that held the rank of Detective Grade One.

In contrast, his partner, Firo Prochainezo, had entered the force only a few years prior, though he'd interned and volunteered since his preteen years. Maiza worried about him, since his motivation for joining the force had nothing to do with an affinity for the job, so much as wanting to find a place to belong and a substitute family. Men with those motivations were more prone to having the work suck dry their spirit, the years withering them to a husk. Still, Firo was the most promising man ever to enter the so-called "Martillo" precinct, and the youngest ever to reach Detective rank. He possessed a sharp eye, and a determination that forced, rather than puzzled, the truth out of a situation. He also had a knack for dealing with people and eliciting information. When the man was up for promotion, Maiza had put in a recommendation, and he'd picked Firo up as a partner soon afterwards.

Firo stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the area.

"Looks pretty straightforward to me, Maiza. Throat slashed, no cleanup, older and shabby-looking victim. Some wino picks our victim off for spare change, or some kids looking to rough up a homeless guy. Those types aren't too clever." Firo said, shrugging.

The department received a large number of cases involving the murder of the city's many homeless people. People always looked to the most vulnerable for that kind of violence, and most assumed the police department wouldn't look too closely into it. Though Firo hated to admit it of the people he thought of as family, the assumption often proved true.

Maiza listened to Firo's deduction, shaking his head when his partner finished. He placed one hand on Firo's shoulder and pointed to the victim's corpse.

"Good observation, Firo, but I'm afraid you've missed an important point." He said

Firo sighed. He wanted to live up to his new position, especially after receiving so much attention over his young age, but once more, he'd made a mistake. Determined to rectify the situation, he tried to pick out more details of the scene.

"What is it, Maiza?" He asked.

"Look at the body. It'll come to you." Maiza reassured.

Firo squinted, frowning as he tried to pick out the vital point that rendered his theory incorrect. It took several minutes, but he finally caught the golden glint peeking out from the man's sleeve.

"A watch. A wino would've pawned that off first chance he got. And a mugger would've pocketed it. You thinking this was target-specific, Maiza?"

"Well, I'm thinking there's more here than meets the eye, at least." Maiza said.

Tapping a finger to his cheek, the younger detective took an account of the warehouse layout: the location of the windows , the doors, the light sources, the weather. Pulling out his own notebook, he drew a quick sketch of the place, even though the crime scene techs were already taking photographs. He liked to have information on hand, in case he forgot anything, which happened often.

"Huh. Plenty of entrances for the killer to come through, but not any near where the body's positioned." Firo noted.

"And what does that tell you?"

"Either the killer moved the body, or he wasn't worried about stealth, I guess. If he wanted to sneak up on the guy, plenty of opportunity to wait until the dead guy was near a window."

"Perhaps our victim had a meeting here, with his killer."

"Maybe. Ah, weird place for a meeting, isn't it?"

"Indeed. Or very convenient. No witnesses, no cameras, plenty of abandoned lots and alleyways to park a car in if you don't want to be seen."

"Hey, you saying this was premeditated, Maiza?"

"I'd say that's your conclusion to draw. As primary."

Firo whipped around to stare up at Maiza, eyes widened. The older man smiled down at him, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze.

Unsure he'd heard correctly, Firo repeated, "As primary? You're making me primary on this?"

In affirmation, Maiza tilted his head forward. He'd been watching his new partner closely over the last few cases, and he'd decided the boy lived up to expectations. Besides, the current case appeared interesting enough to test Firo's skill, without being too difficult. Of course, that was only Maiza's preliminary analysis, but after being on the force for so long, Maiza found his judgment worked out more often than not.

"Wow. Thanks, Maiza. But are you sure? I mean, you're still a lot smarter with this stuff than I am."

Since Firo had only been partnered with Maiza recently, and he'd only made detective a few months ago, Firo had yet to assume the role of primary on any of their cases together. He had complete confidence in his ability to assist in closing cases, knowing full well he'd earned his young promotion. However, the thought of taking lead, of assuming Maiza's usual responsibilities, left him a bit unsure.

Maiza moved his hand and patted Firo's back. "Absolutely. I think you're ready."

Firo made a fist, grinning to himself. "Alright. I'll close this in a cinch, just you see."

One of the criminalists waved over to the pair, a labeled evidence bag in his hand. Beside him, the first on scene chatted with the scene photographer, waiting for a detective to take his statement. Firo raised a finger to signal that he'd be right over. For a moment, he prepared to ask Maiza for his instructions, before he remembered he had to call the shots on this.

"How about you go canvas the area, see if there's anyone who might've been hanging around last night? And I'll take these guys." Firo suggested.

Maiza nodded and walked off towards the main warehouse entrance. In all likelihood, they'd find no viable witnesses. Anyone they found in the area would be too strung out or mentally degraded to give an accurate testimony, if they even agreed to talk to a detective in the first place. Still, it was a step in the procedure, and so they had to take care of it. So Maiza set out, sparing one glance back at his partner, before leaving the investigation in his hands.

And with a spirit full of resolve, Firo headed over to the criminalists, prepared to prove himself to the police department he'd given his life to.

* * *

By that evening, the body had been prepared for autopsy. It must have been a slow week for the mortician, because Firo's cases usually didn't get such priority status. Not helping was the fact that the head coroner lived with Firo, and she went out of her way to avoid any accusations of favoritism.

Ennis leaned over the corpse, examining the slash across the man's throat. She wore a pair of light blue scrubs over her thin frame, her red hair bobbed to keep out of her face. Her eyes narrowed with an intense scrutiny, the analytical processes going through her mind visible in her expression. Deft, her fingers clutched a stained scalpel, which she maneuvered over key areas of the wound. Every now and then, she made a note in the file laying on a counter to the side, or she turned on her recorder to make a comment.

Across the room, Firo watched her work, a methodical and gruesome process he'd watched countless times before, and he thought to himself how lucky he was to have Ennis as his roommate. They'd been living together for years, and Ennis's intelligence still astounded him. She nodded at the throat wound and went to make a note, leaving Firo to squint at the injury to try and figure out what she'd observed. However, unlike Ennis, he couldn't extract any information from the sight.

Since Ennis tended to remain quiet while working, Firo decided to ask. "So, what're you thinking, Ennis?"

She paused, about to take a sample. Without looking up, she responded.

"The slashed jugular is the cause of death. It appears to have been caused by a small knife - waved blade, rear serrated. You'd probably know more than me about that." She said.

As a knife aficionado, Firo was inclined to agree. It puzzled the rest of the police force, who thought it a useless skill since they carried guns. Firo liked using knives, though, enjoyed the directness of it, the amount of agility and dexterity they needed to master. A blade in his hand felt more like an extension of himself than a handgun ever did.

"That's a common make. You'll find that at pretty much every shop in this city selling knives. I don't think we'll find any leads there."

Ennis tilted her head. "Well, that follows. The wound is consistent with a knife being dragged left to right across the throat, from behind."

"What?" Firo said, walking closer to look at the mark himself. "But that kind of knife isn't made for slicing. It's a stabbing knife."

"Exactly. And the serrated edge makes for a messy draw. Combined with the angle of the cut, which indicates a shorter attacker, by the way, I'd say the killer is rather inexperienced. Wouldn't you?" Ennis said.

"Huh. A first kill? Well, lends wait to Maiza's target-kill theory."

Ennis grabbed a syringe from her tray of tools and began to draw fluids from the abdomen. Tests on it would indicate drug or alcohol use, in conjunction with the blood samples taken earlier. Firo watched as he walked back around to the counter.

"Where is Maiza, anyway?" She asked.

Firo folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the counter, flashing Ennis a grin.

"Eh, he's off looking through the crime scene evidence, trying to get some dirt on who the guy was. No ID, from what I hear." Firo said. "But he doesn't have to be here. Only the _primary_ does."

Ennis glanced up. "Oh? He made you primary? Congratulations. I am sure you will do well."

"I know I will. But thanks." Firo said.

Shuffling his feet against the tiled floor, Firo looked down. He rubbed his arm, trying to formulate the right words. After a couple minutes of silence, Ennis moving to complete each step of the autopsy with precision, he decided to posit a question.

"Hey, I was thinking, maybe we could go out to celebrate or something tonight? Ah, maybe get dinner?"

Even though they'd been living together for so long, the two were just platonic friends with one another. Firo raised no complaint about that, even though merely thinking about Ennis accelerated his heartbeat and lit a spark of joy inside him. He knew Ennis stayed busy with work and keeping up with the field, so there wasn't much time for her to date. And she seemed oblivious to his feelings, anyway. Firo didn't care, though. Just being able to watch her work and having the privileged to come home to her was enough to satisfy him.

"That's a good idea. We should bring Czes as well." Ennis said, referring to the young prodigy who'd come to live with them after a series of odd events a couple years ago.

"Yeah. Of course. We'll bring him." Firo said, defeated.

He didn't mind spending time with Czeslaw; he'd just hoped to have some time alone with Ennis. It was his fault, though. Should have made it clearer to her what he wanted, because Ennis always misinterpreted his intentions, but the thought of being so direct made him freeze up. So Firo didn't begrudge her for the mistake.

Firo forced himself to turn his focus back onto the autopsy, and the case at hand, trying to ignore his anticipation for the night ahead. Even with Czes along, a night out with Ennis incited fervor in the young man. He found it difficult to keep focused when he kept imagining Ennis in a nice suit, or maybe even a gown, or -

"Firo? Are you taking note of this?"

"Huh?" Firo said, brought back to the present.

And looking at her, he thought she looked just as striking in her oversized blue scrubs as in any formal wear. He smiled and walked to her side.

"Yeah, of course I am. Just run me through it again."

* * *

_'Maybe I could get her a gift or something. Or put my hand on hers and see if she says anything. Ugh, why does this have to be so difficult? And Claire makes it look so simple.' _

Firo leaned back against the wall of the police department building, taking a few minutes of a break between the autopsy and returning to his work on the case. The red-headed coroner dominated his thoughts. But then, she always did, like an apparition that hovered in the corners of his mind, on the edge of every idea.

_'Why couldn't I just ask her to dinner alone? Why can't I just say the word 'date'?'_

He knew his relationship with Ennis would unfold when the time was right, when both of them decided they were ready for it. He couldn't help but want to speed it along a little, though, in fear that nothing would ever become of them.

Before he could conjure up a solution, the phone in his pocket vibrated. He fished it out and checked the caller ID. Recognizing Maiza's work line, he flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear.

"Maiza? Hey, I'm just on my way back to the office."

"You should come up soon then. I have identification on the body from this afternoon." Maiza said.

"Yeah? No surprise there." Firo commented, having pegged the deceased as a regular to the system, which meant his fingerprints would be on record.

"Yes, but not quite how we expected."

"How's that?"

"Do you recall the assassin case that was in the news a few months back? The acquittal that had the press up in arms?"

Firo searched his memory. "Yeah, guy was starting to go funny or something, started killing people he didn't have contracts on. Luck's case, right? Wait, wait a second - you aren't saying our victim is that guy, are you?"

"I believe Luck Gandor was the prosecuting attorney, yes. And indeed, our victim is the infamous assassin. Goes by Smith, nothing else. No records of another name."

"What? No way, Maiza, you have to be kidding me. A guy with that rep doesn't up and buy it in some warehouse, caught off guard."

"Well, it appears this one did."

"You still want me to take primary on this, Maiza? Would be a pretty big collar for you, I bet." Firo said, knowing his partner hadn't counted on the case being so prolific.

"I'm sure. Quite a case for your first primary job, but I suppose it had to be that way. Your career seems fated to exceed expectations, Firo."

"If you say so." Said Firo, who considered it just a strange coincidence.

"Yes, well, I'll meet you up here, then. Plenty of material to look over. See you then."

Firo shut the phone as the dial tone rung in his ear. Sighing, he slipped the device back into his pocket and looked out towards the horizon.

"Plenty of suspects, too." He said to himself.

Who'd want to kill the hitman? Well, anyone related to the victims, for one thing. Then came anyone involved in a criminal organization that suffered a hit from the assassin. Not to mention all the man's unscrupulous employers and anyone involved with _them_. Add in the good Samaritans riled up from the media attention, and you had a stew of suspects and motivations and possible routes. This was nothing like the simple case he'd first expected.

Firo grinned to himself, fingers balling into fists at his side. It wasn't what he expected, but he was going to shut this case down anyway. The killer wouldn't even see it coming when Firo hit him with his investigation. And he _would _succeed.

Because he was Firo Prochainezo, detective grade three of the nicknamed 'Martillo' precinct of the NYPD. And he was ready to prove his dedication, whatever the cost.

* * *

**A/N:** New fic! Thought this would be an interesting idea. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! Expect more soon.

**Pairings:** Firo/Ennis, Claire/Chane, Tick/Maria, Graham/Shaft, Ladd/Lua


	2. The Private Eyes Have Arrived

"Ah - good old New York City. No matter where we end up travelling, I think I'll always end up back here. You know what I mean?"

Standing in front of a rental apartment window, staring at the city streets that weaved and bustled with people below, Claire Stanfield enthused about the place in which he'd grown up. It had been a few months now since he'd found himself in the Big Apple, not since he'd landed a case snuffing out a low-level drug operation. Well, his official assignment from the client had been to 'gather espionage' on them, but after watching their despicable activities for a couple days, he decided he liked his plan a lot better.

_'You will grow tired of it in a couple weeks. You always do, even in this place.' _

At the desk behind him, Chane Laforet sat with a file opened up in front of her. She'd waited until Claire glanced at her to give her answer, though it was only a thought vocalized in her mind. The two knew each other, were close enough with one another, to communicate effectively in such a manner. Her fingers skimmed over the papers before her, as she committed the information to memory.

"Yeah? You're probably right, Chane. There's just so much of my world to see. I don't want to get caught up in one small section of it." Claire said, whirling around and slamming his hands down on the edge of the desk.

_'Still, it takes you longer with New York than other places. I do not understand this concept. This place was never a home for me.'_

Chane hadn't even flinched at Claire's excitement, long accustomed to his strange declarations and bouts of energy. The two had been working with each other for a few years by now, after all.

Claire ran a small private investigator business, with the two as the only investigators. Most of their cases, Claire picked on a whim, having more than enough client requests to pick and choose his cases. Expected, as he closed every single job he undertook. The only issue with his business was Claire's proclivity for making his own judgments on the cases, rather than leaving it to the client. Sometimes, this left the targeted party dead or incarcerated. The client was always too terrified to complain, though, so they still received their pay.

"Oh, right. Sorry, that was thoughtless." Claire said, though the smile on his face didn't hint at any regret.

_'It is fine. People have always been my home. First, my father. And now, you as well.'_

The two investigators had met on one of Claire's assignments about five years prior, over in Brooklyn. A homeland security agent he knew well had asked him to keep an eye on a local group of potential terrorists, suspected due to evidence he wasn't cleared to ever see. Claire complied with the request, and he documented tremendous proof that the members were up to nefarious activities with the intention of damaging the U.S government. However, during the course of his investigation, he started focusing on one member in particular - the attractive Chane Laforet, who incidentally, seemed opposed to the methods utilized. He broke protocol and made his presence known one night, when a coup within the group lead to a threat against Chane's life. He'd taken out all the members himself - much to his client's chagrin - and proposed to the woman right on the spot. She'd turned him down, only to become his business partner instead.

"No need to worry, then. You'll always have me, Chane. So you'll always have a home." Claire said, leaning over the desk and brushing the hair out of her face.

In the course of their work together, she'd also become his girlfriend. Chane still couldn't believe that fact herself, many days, especially when she thought about her former life. At times, she missed the more intense point in her life when she worked for the terrorist faction, but Claire's words always helped assuage her doubts. For all its merits, Chane had never considered that group a home.

_'I was not worrying. But I believe you.' _

Her belief in his assertions still surprised even herself. She'd never expected to find someone she could rely on, whom she'd respect and admire enough to consider a partner. Most people fell short of her expectations. Claire didn't just exceed them - he broke down, redefined, and then obliterated them all over again, much to her bafflement.

However certain parts of him remained painfully predictable. Claire leaned further over the desk and caressed Chane's cheek with his hand. He cocked a smile at her, eyes brimming with confidence, as he spoke.

"That last job over in Boston landed us a good bit of cash. And now we're conveniently in New York City, with a case that's sure to pay off well. And it's such a great part of the year right now, don't you think?" He said. "I guess what I'm trying to say is - we should get married while we're here. What do you say?"

Chane reached up and laid her hand over his, but her fingers squeezed his appendages, just enough to cause him to register a sliver of pain.

_'Not yet. I am not ready for marriage. I have told you this.'_

Keeping his hand still, face not revealing a flicker of being deterred, Claire responded, "Alright, alright, I get it. Just making sure. As long as you're in love with me, I'm happy, anyway."

Despite his claims, Claire re-proposed marriage every couple of months, thinking he could eventually change Chane's mind. All his efforts failed, but this did not dissuade him from continuing. Love was enough, but he liked the security, the peace of mind that came with an official marriage. Claire didn't like uncertainties in his life, which was the basis for his choice to adopt a solipsistic outlook on life. If he controlled everything, then nothing was actually left up to chance. For this reason, the issue of Chane's refusal bothered him like a thorn in his side.

_'Then do not worry. Because I will always be in love with you.' _ Chane echoed his words.

Claire rocked forward on his tiptoes to close the gap and plant a kiss on her. Chane stiffened for a second before closing her eyes and trying to roll with it. Even though they'd been together a long time, such affectionate acts still felt foreign to her. Especially since Claire was so unabashed in his desires.

After a couple seconds, Claire broke the kiss and straightened up. He walked around to the other side of the desk and peered over her shoulder at the file.

"So what do we have this time? I hope it's something that'll give me a real workout. These last few cases have been too boring." He complained.

Chane shrugged and pointed to the summary of the client's request.

"A missing person, eh? Well, I guess those can be exciting. How much information we have on the guy?"

_'Quite a bit. He was not an honest man. Nor was his career without notoriety.' _She responded, flipping the pages and pointing to the description and full report on the missing man.

Claire frowned at the man's occupation. "A lawyer? Whenever those types disappear, it's because of drugs or a mob client. They take no time at all to track down. Oh well, I guess we'll get this over with quickly."

_'I would not be so sure. Do you recognize the name?'_

Reaching over and picking up a couple pages of the report, Claire narrowed his eyes and tried to place the name of the victim.

"Dallas Genoard?"

_'Yes. Of the Genoard family.'_

"The name sounds familiar. Weren't they some big-shots back in the day?"

Chane nodded. _'They ran a powerful firm, until their mob connections killed the head guy and his heir.'_

The story rang bells for Claire, but he travelled so often that keeping up with NYC news was near impossible. He touched a hand to Chane's back.

"So now where does Dallas Genoard play into this?"

_'He continued the family work, even though the firm fell into disrepute. According to the report, he has none of the influence or skill of his predecessors, and his well-known sordid habits have lost what little inheritance he had left.' _

"Swell guy, huh?" Claire said. "I'm impressed that you know so much about this, Chane. Your knowledge is truly astounding."

Chane frowned. _'It's all in the file, Claire. And my father is a judge, remember? I do not understand why you compliment me.'_

"Still? You just make me so happy, Chane, that I have to share it with you. You know what I mean?"

As usual, Chane did not, in fact, know what he meant. But she'd ceased questioning him years ago, so she just shook her head and turned back to the file. Claire may enjoy swerving off-course with his work, but Chane preferred to stay on-topic. One of them had to.

_'Lots of avenues to start with.' _

"Yeah, yeah, let's get this done with." Claire said, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk.

He grabbed the remaining file papers from Chane and flipped through them, nodding every now and then. He took no notes, but then, he had a stellar memory. Ever restless, his legs kicked back and forth as he took a few minutes to peruse the entire packet.

"Talk about tons of enemies, huh?" He commented. "Plenty of scum clients, awful win-loss record, probably some old mob connections in there. Not to mention all the people in his personal life he's pissed off."

_'Exactly. What about the charges brought up against him? We could start there.'_

"Nah, I don't think so. It's all petty stuff - bar fights, tab disputes, some debt-collection issues. Nothing worth killing someone over. For those people, anyway." Claire said, at least partially self-aware of his own trigger-happiness.

_'You do not know that. Perhaps he picked a fight with the wrong type of person.' _Chane pointed out, one of the few people unafraid to contest Claire's judgment.

"Last time charges were dismissed was six months ago. Something like a bar fight? If the guy's aggressive enough to kill, he would've done it then or soon after. Not wait this long."Claire said with a wave of his hand.

_'Where would you begin then?'_

Claire beamed, leaning forward and running his fingers through Chane's soft hair.

"With a rich kid like this? It's easy - just follow the money." He declared.

Chane had to admit that Claire had a point - money trails proved an efficient investigative starting point when it came to people used to having cash on demand.

_ 'Our banking contacts won't be available at this hour.'_

"Then we'll just have to call tomorrow morning. Plenty to do in the meantime." Claire said with a flippant shrug.

_'Plenty? Do you plan to visit your brothers this time?' _ Chane asked, referring to the three Gandors who'd grown up with the orphaned Stanfield.

Last time they'd travelled to the city, Claire hadn't gone to see his brothers. The fiasco with the drug runners told him it might be a poor idea to contact the three, who all worked in key areas of law enforcement. The Gandors disapproved of many of Claire's tactics, though they'd never vocalized it, and had on occasion outsourced cases to him. He talked to them sporadically, and they considered him family, but they kept a careful distance from the eccentric freelance investigator.

Claire tilted his head and said, "Yeah, I'll send a message or something for them to pay a visit. You know how busy they get."

He seemed blithe to the vagueness of his plan, as if they had all the time in the world instead of only the couple weeks they'd be in town. Chane wondered why he didn't contact them before coming into the city, but just a glance at Claire's face instilled confidence in her that, somehow, everything would work out for him.

_'Then what should we do for today?'_

Leaning over, Claire brushed his lips over his lover's cheek, before pulling back and tilting his forehead against hers.

"Well, we'll grab some champagne and walk through the city until we find a nice restaurant, of course. It's New York! And we've got an adventure on our hands." He exclaimed.

_'Didn't we bring wine from Boston?' _

"Oh, that's right." He said, standing back up.

Reminded, Claire hurried over to the suitcases laying on the room's floor, and he rooted through them until he pulled out a bottle of good wine, a gift from a satisfied client from a couple jobs prior. Without consulting Chane, he walked to the kitchen and grabbed two stocked paper cups. With a soft _pop_, he wrenched the cork from the bottle top, before pouring the red liquid. He returned to Chane, who had been watching without comment, and handed her a cup, which she took.

"An early drink. So that we can toast to the start of our visit." He explained.

Chane tipped her cup forward, used to her partner's antics. Claire met every new destination with enthusiasm, but New York City especially elicited excitement. Tilting her head, her lips curved into what fell just short of being a smile, the closest her expression could come to displaying joy. However, Claire recognized it for what it was, and he grinned at her.

"To this case. To my world. To us." He proclaimed, tapping his wine cup against hers.

_'To us.' _Chane repeated.

And they brought the cups to their lips and drank, secure in their bond with one another, and ready to face whatever challenge the next day would bring.


	3. Enter the Consultants

Glaring yellow tape quartered off the abandoned lot, isolating the square from the chaos of the evening city around it. Center stage, a deceased body, rigorous and pale, laid uncovered against the crumbling pavement. Flashes of light from the crime scene photographers illuminated and singled out the key elements of the crime: a black tarp that had been used to conceal the body, a bag of tools spilled across the ground, a car with its rims missing and paint tarnished, a driver's license laying atop the corpse. Whoever had committed the murder had wanted the man's identity known. So far, the officers had discerned that he was an auto worker at a local factory, whose coworker reported him missing a few days prior.

Since the case appeared low-priority, the responding detectives had delegated the investigation to the nephew of the precinct's commander: Detective Ladd Russo. His renown didn't strike an impressive record, and in fact, his cases tended to go unsolved and mysteriously quiet, but his familial connection and ability to instill fear in everyone he spoke to fueled a rapid promotion through the force. No one quite understood why Ladd stayed on the force, when he spoke vocally about how boring he found the job, only seeming to get a kick out of it when he hunted down a suspect. On the cases that didn't pique his interest, and ones with specialized elements, Ladd often brought in outside consultants to take care of the investigation for him. Considering the automotive-related circumstances of the current case, Ladd had known just the man to call up.

"What do I think of this scene? Let me tell you, I think it tells us a very sad, sad story. Just look at the tragedy of this performance - A mechanic's potential wasted, all those sharp, new, shining tools gone to waste, all the dismantling and destruction possible sucked from their very _being_. This is indeed an upsetting sight, boss Ladd."

"What? No, you're looking at it all wrong. What's upsetting is how trite it is. Look at how little blood there is, how simple the kill. It's like the killer has no sense of beauty."

"Let me ask you something - when you cut to the center of it, aren't all killings the same? Just objects breaking down before their time. Aesthetically, they are like paintings, some grandiose and surreal with lots of colors and components, like a Dali. And ones like this, which are minimalistic, conveying even more with so little. So I guess that way, they are different after all!"

A burst of laughter. "You're a real nut job, you know that kid? Like a little motor that just keeps sputtering, not even knowing it's out of fuel."

Echoing the cackling. "I'm just so excited to see you again, brother Ladd. The presence of your sheer perfection just revs me up. So really, it's all your fault."

As if utterly unaware of their grim location, the blue-clad mechanic and suited detective locked arms in what could have been either an embrace or a tussle. Wide grins warped both their faces, the distortion stemming from some identical madness that pulsed deep inside each of the two. All of the other people on-scene turned a trained blind eye to the going-on, unwilling to involve themselves with the situation.

All, that is, except for Graham's partner, who leaned against the far wall and pulled his violet hat low over his face, jaw clenched so tightly it had his head throbbing. He deliberately kept from looking at the two, though their boisterous voices shattered his ability to ignore them.

Shaft wasn't overly fond of working with Ladd Russo, despite Graham's hero worship of the man. Involvement with the detective always led to pain for him, and the man's blatant insanity frightened him. One would expect Shaft to be used to such madness, since he lived with the eccentric Graham Specter, but he still could not swallow Ladd's brand of crazy. Any complaints to Graham regarding the matter just led to more pain, though, and his swift silencing. Making matters worse, he and Graham had been out to dinner when Ladd called them up. The excitable Graham had dashed off with barely a word to his partner, sticking Shaft with paying for food they hadn't even gotten yet.

With a sigh, Shaft plucked a cell phone from the pocket of his rumpled jacket, resigning himself to the circumstances. No point in complaining anymore; it only fell on deaf ears. He flipped open the phone and scanned his extensive contact list, before beginning the process of covertly contacting each individual's number.

Shaft and Graham had worked together for a number of years, their partnership working due to how well their skills complemented each other's. They'd first met when Shaft became an assistant at the factory Graham had worked at. Though the two hadn't hit it off at first (a fact that left Shaft aching for days after their first meeting), they'd eventually struck up a rapport and affinity for one another. When Graham left to pursue his own mechanical work, Shaft didn't think twice before quitting to join him. And when the consulting work began, their partnership yielded a successful track record. Graham provided a technical genius and ferocity that lent a unique perspective on problems and cases. Shaft, on the other hand, belonged to an underground intelligence network, the extreme depths of which Graham didn't even know about, and which allowed him to access information on nearly any event occurring within city limits.

With deft fingers and tired eyes, Shaft dug for information on the murder, receiving instantaneous responses from his contacts. In turn, he shot back a couple observations of his own to every reply, adding to the collective wealth of knowledge. He'd gotten just about done with the process when he heard his name called.

" - isn't that right, Shaft?"

"Eh?"

Shaft glanced up, only to see Graham pointing that wretched wrench the mechanic always carried at him. Despite the violence that usually followed the familiar phrase, Graham smiled at his partner, eyes sparkling with naked bliss. At the sight, Shaft's heart wrenched, a shot of adrenaline both painful and pleasant, that strange paradox. He wondered which had caused it: the aesthetic sight of the man, or the knowledge of who had instilled that excitement in him.

Recognizing the danger of the situation, Shaft shrugged, "Whatever you say, boss."

Graham jumped back, arms spread out in a dramatic gesture. Unlike his partner, he was positively glowing at the prospect of taking on the job. An intriguing case, the possibility for destruction, getting to help out his idolized superior? He couldn't contain the enthusiasm he felt, and he possessed no desire to anyway. The concept of self-restraint didn't quite mesh with Graham, no matter how many people had urged him about it during his life.

"You really should be more attentive, Shaft. Distraction is a vice that snares and snaps the unsuspecting, and you don't want to meet that tragic fate, do you?" Graham mused as he walked over and threw an arm around Shaft's shoulders, nearly whacking the man with his wrench in the process.

Shaft flinched at the touch, tensing up in an instant. Graham could not comprehend why this was, since they'd been together for over a year now. Their friendship had evolved into an intimate relationship so naturally that neither man had been aware of the progression until it came to pass. With a frown, Graham cocked his head and studied his partner, who'd been tight-lipped all evening. Graham disliked being unable to figure out puzzles, which he classified Shaft as, but he figured that probably was what prevented him from becoming bored with the man, so he didn't dwell on it often.

"I don't think it counts as tragic, if the life you're living is already a tragedy." Shaft said.

Recognizing the slight, Graham removed his arm from the man and slammed his elbow into his partner's stomach instead, causing the man to keel over. Coughing, Shaft's face blanched. He'd never had a hardy constitution, so combined with Graham's strength, any 'playful' jab could take him out.

"You ought to learn to quit whining, Shaft. Life is so terrific, that to complain is such a waste of precious words." Graham scolded. However, when Shaft picked himself off the floor, Graham lent his hand and helped pull his partner upright.

As usual, Ladd cast a strange look at the saner of the duo, as if he couldn't quite figure out what to make of the partner of his "brother." Since Shaft went out of his way to avoid dealing with the Russo, Ladd was unable to draw any definite conclusion. Shrugging it off, Ladd walked over to join the pair, and he gave Graham a slap on the back.

"You guys think you can handle this? Normally, I wouldn't want to miss out on the action, but let's just say - I have a more exciting case worth my attention." He said.

"We'll take this for you, boss Ladd. Anything you say, you can count on me to bring it to success, to victory in your name." Graham exclaimed.

Shaft inclined his head in agreement, determined to share as few words as possible with the man.

"Well, get it finished quick then, and call me when you do. I have to get out of here." Ladd said, jabbing a finger at Graham to show his seriousness. Graham had a habit of running off-track during his work, leaving the initial task given unfinished.

Without dragging it out, Ladd turned on his heel and walked towards the exit. Graham scrambled after him, chattering reassurances of the pair's abilities and praises about the Russo as he followed him to the exit. Shaft watched his partner, who was practically hanging off of Ladd, and gritted his teeth. As he waited for Graham to return, he began to catalogue all the individual factors of the crime scene, matching them up with the information he'd received.

By the time Graham came back, raw energy pulsating from his body and charging the air around him, Shaft had formulated his hypothesis. However, he kept quiet, arms crossed as he waited for his partner to bother asking his opinion on the situation.

Still hyped up from the encounter with Ladd, and oblivious to Shaft's disgruntlement, Graham threw his arms around his partner's neck, the cold metal of the wrench brushing against Shaft's skin. As the mechanic peered up at the slightly taller man, Shaft felt his nerves shake loose. Those eyes, sparkling with the electricity incited only by madness, seemed to electrocute him just from looking. He swallowed hard and tried to look away.

"Do you know what the most exciting part of a story is, Shaft? Don't answer that - you're probably wrong. It's the beginning, when the tale just starts to unfold like a spring flower, and you don't know what kind of story it'll be. It could be sad, or happy, or bittersweet, or even an utter tragedy."

"Isn't a sad story and a tragedy the same thing, boss?" Shaft pointed out, exhaustion taking over for his initial nervousness.

"No, no, no, it's not. What about a tragedy that goes and changes everyone else in the story for the better? Then, most of the characters would be quite happy. Or a sad story in which the characters emerge successful, but the price they pay is just sad. It's not tragic, because the characters are fine. They're completely different."

"I don't think you understand what a tragedy is." Shaft said with a sigh. "And look, I think we should start discussing the case."

"Oh? Are you saying you are unhappy with my story, Shaft?" Graham said, eyes narrowing, signaling a dangerous situation.

A surge of anxiety prompted Shaft to start his usual complacency, anything to keep Graham happy and nonviolent. He'd racked up quite a few medical issues from Graham's violent strikes throughout the years, not that it bothered the man any. Shaft didn't care much about the pain, seeing it as too integral to Graham's personality to wish away. It fascinated him far more than it hurt him. Still, even as the words to appease Graham formed in his mind, so too did the memory of Graham pushing him aside to consort with Ladd.

For whatever reason, the image caused an adverse reaction in Shaft, who reached up and removed Graham's hands from behind his neck. Graham blinked, confused, as Shaft took a few steps back to distance himself. The confusion deepened when Shaft gave his answer.

"Actually, I am unhappy. Let's just discuss the scene so that we can get home." Shaft said.

Graham didn't understand Shaft's response. He wasn't stupid - Graham knew Shaft complained about him and insulted him all the time. Just usually it was behind his back or in sarcasm or deliberately exaggerated, so he knew it wasn't serious. Struck, like a reprimanded child, Graham made no immediate motion to respond or even punish his partner.

Terrified, and understanding he had to take advantage of the moment before Graham recovered his wits, Shaft decided to start his explanation of the crime scene. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and he had to consciously keep his breathing steady, but he tried to feign confidence anyway.

"Now, I noticed that the car appears to have some recent work done. You can see that the coat of paint is only a couple days old, the tires show little signs of wear, and the mechanical - "

"The tools on the ground are mostly for aesthetic changes, like when you want to beautify a new car, or if someone's scratched it, or if you want to switch out ornaments. Oh! Or if you want to disguise a car obtained through nefarious means." Graham interjected, smiling again.

Shaft nodded. "Sounds right, boss. I, ah, I don't recognize the car model though."

Graham laughed. "Do I have to tell you everything, Shaft? Your incompetence is astounding sometimes. Don't you recognize it? It's the latest model in an amateur line of cars, known for how fast they go on so little gas. But it's only a couple years before they start falling apart, like a beautiful firework, quick for an instant before fading away. Like a commentary on life itself! How amazing it is. Shall we appreciate the brief beauty of life together, Shaft?"

Truth was, Shaft had known that information already. In fact, he'd started off knowing his conclusion, and he'd only picked up the facts to fit it and work around it. He felt guilty sometimes for deceiving Graham, but he was sworn to keep his information network absolutely secret.

"My guess is that this place was used to store stolen cars, by an auto-theft ring that dabbles in street racing. We break apart this ring, we might be able to siphon off some of their goods and cash for ourselves too." Shaft declared, always up for some extra cash.

"How exciting! Can you imagine, being in a car theft operation? Getting to take apart all those cars, breaking them into tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny little pieces and carrying them back to your factory and rebuilding them again. And then they're yours!"

"That's not how it works, boss."

"What do you know, Shaft? Only because no one's been innovative enough, been skilled or as dedicated to the sweet art of destruction as I am, to attempt it. You are so short-sighted. One way or the other, we're going to find out, because this is the perfect opportunity to go undercover." Graham exclaimed.

Shaft froze, not having made that deduction at all. His mind screaming out against the idea, he shook his head vehemently. "Uh, I don't think that's necessary for this case at all."

Graham raised his wrench and pushed it against Shaft's throat, a warning. "How else do you propose we get into the mind of the killer here? The only way to understand a man is to _become _him, to integrate yourself into the life and wear the skin so snugly that you actually transcend yourself into that existence. Only then can you comprehend a motive. And we do agree that the auto ring men have motive, correct?"

Cursing his trembling body, Shaft raised a hand and held it away from his body, a sign for Graham to halt and calm down.

"C-correct, boss." He said.

"Then we have to go plan! The worst poison for an undercover mission is lack of preparation, and we don't want to fall victim and die at the hands of our own folly. Let's see, we'll need outfits, tools, bags, grease, glasses, a map, cameras..."

As Graham's list went on and on, Shaft's muscles felt wearier and wearier, the full weight of the absurd task he'd taken on crashing down on his shoulders. He knew he could shear the list down by the next day, but talking Graham out of the plan now was out of the question. In all likelihood, they wouldn't even get home until past midnight, if at all. And Shaft had already stayed up all night the day prior, running errands for Graham. He sighed, the worst scenarios to arise from such a mission flashing in his tired mind.

With Graham, there was no way to predict how the job ahead would unfold, or whether or not the end result would be positive. Only one fact rang with certainty in Shaft's mind: This was going to be a most overwhelming case indeed.

Then, he watched Graham continue to blissfully spin his list, dazzling grin widening with each new item, and remembered the other fact that used to lay beneath everything he did: No matter how troublesome Graham's whims were, it would always be worth it.

And Shaft questioned, unable to resolve the schism in his beliefs, whether he still thought that was true.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading!


	4. The Detective's Case Rolls Onward

It was the next morning, and Firo Prochainezo found himself no closer to solving his case than he'd been the previous day. He'd gone through the standard first steps the day before. He'd called the next of kin - some kid the victim was legal guardian of - only to discover the man had no other family. The next of kin hadn't known whether or not the victim had set up a meeting on that day, and in fact, hadn't spoken with Smith in days. Hitting a dead end there, he'd traced the victim's financials, but Smith operated on cash alone, apparently. The only records were of withdrawals from various ATMs, and he even paid the bills with cash. A visit to the victim's home revealed a small apartment that appeared barely lived in, and Firo hadn't found so much as a hint towards the identity of the killer there. The biggest find had been a stash of guns, but that was expected for an assassin.

Firo twisted his office chair back and forth as he thought over the dead ends he'd wasted time on. He stretched his legs out and plopped his feet down on the top of his desk, legs crossed. With a sigh, he flicked his eyes up to the ceiling and tried to figure out where to go next. Usually, the investigative route became clear in the first day, after examining financials and family background. Except Smith apparently didn't have much of either, or at least, had concealed whatever connections there he did have. Firo was starting to wish the deceased had been a mere wino after all.

Since he had no other leads, Firo grabbed the court file on the victim's recent trial. Maiza had swung by earlier and dropped it off, wishing his partner good luck before heading off to pick up information from the evidence lab. Since they were also closing up another case, Firo didn't expect to see Maiza until later that day.

The file contained a number of documents scrounged up from their contacts at the court, mostly just transcripts with a few media articles attached. Firo vaguely remembered seeing news coverage on it, though he tended to avoid the news these days. What was the point of watching it, when he already lived through it every day? And court coverage was too high-brow for him. The most he'd heard about the case was a few brief snippets from Luck, who was a closed book when it came to his work. Firo opened up the file and flipped through the pages, starting with the articles, which would be easier to understand.

The papers told the story of a trial turned into a media circus. Jury sequestered, accusations of witness tampering, the old claims of police coercion, a silent defendant combined with a loud-mouthed attorney - all the elements for a legal mess.

_'No wonder the guy got off. Jeez.' _Firo thought to himself, shaking his head. Poor Luck - the Gandor preferred to lay low and give only courtesy answers to the reporters, not the type to play it up in the spotlight. He'd probably abhorred the case. Still, the reporters talked often about Luck, probably because the smooth lawyer meshed well with the public image.

At the thought of his old friend, Firo picked up his desk phone and dialed Luck's number. The file left Firo with more questions than answers, though that was no surprise. Maiza was better at analyzing that type of evidence; Firo had trouble understanding all the technicalities, as he wasn't book-smart like his partner. Namely, he wanted to know why the trial of some two-bit mob assassin garnered up so much media attention. Not to mention, he didn't understand how Smith had gotten off, when all the reports pointed to an imminent guilty verdict.

The other line rang over and over, before stopping with a _beep_. Then: "Hello, you have reached the answering machine of - "

Firo hung up the phone, figuring he'd rather call back later than leave a message. Well, there went that avenue of investigation. He flipped through the papers again, wondering if he hadn't missed anything the first time around. Surely, _someone _had to know what had sparked the public fervor. It wasn't like the media would want to hide whatever set it off.

After scanning a couple articles, Firo hit one that made his eyes widen, brightening with a flash of recognition. His hand flew to the phone once more and he started dialing another number. After having to stop once and dig out his address book, hoping the recipient hadn't changed his number yet _again_, the other side started to ring.

"Hello?"

Grinning, Firo leaned back in his chair, receiver against his ear, as he said, "Claire! Long time no see."

"Firo! Hey, imagine that - I was just about to give you a ring."

Firo doubted that, knowing that with Claire's perception of time, 'just about' could mean pretty much anything. Still, a long time had passed since the last time he spoke to the private investigator, who flitted in and out of Firo's life at will. The two had grown up with one another, though, and so whenever he did speak with Claire again, it was as if nothing had changed at all. Then again, perhaps that was because _Claire_ never changed.

"Sure you were, pal. Where are you now anyway?" Firo asked.

"That's why it's such a coincidence - I'm in the city right now."

Firo assumed he meant New York, though with Claire, you never knew. "Yeah? What for? Visiting Luck and them?"

"No, no, though I'll do that eventually. On a case, with Chane."

"Do they even know you're in town, Claire?"

"Well, probably not. They will when I drop in, though."

Firo laughed. Talking to his old friend always refreshed him, even if the man could frustrate him at times. He decided to get down to business, since conversations with Claire tended to derail fast.

"So Claire, do you still know that reporter girl from around here? The newspaper one?"

"Oh, you mean Rachel? Yeah, I still know her, we talk every now and then. Smart woman. Real attractive too, if you're looking for me to set you up."

"What? No, no, that's not what I'm asking you for."

"Yeah? That mean you finally got with Ennis then? About time, if you ask me."

Firo shook his head, even though he was on the phone, his expression growing pained. "No, we're not together. I mean, we spend a lot of time together, but we're not ready for _that."_

A laugh from the other line. "Calm down, Firo. You'll never snag her with that attitude."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, Claire. Look, can you get me this Rachel girl's number? I need it for a case I'm on."

"Alright, sheesh. Hold on, let me try and dig it up."

With a sigh, Firo relaxed and leaned back once more. At times, he wished he had Claire's headstrong attitude when it came to women. Sure, it'd failed a lot when they were young, but he envied Claire for having someone who returned his affections now. Not that Firo wanted anyone but Ennis, nor did he want to rush things or pressure her. He just wished he could make his feelings clearer. As he pictured his roommate sitting across from him like she had last night, a smile crossed his face.

"Hey, you still there? Copy this down." Claire said.

As Claire recited the phone number, Firo jotted it down on the back of one of the news articles. He thanked his friend, and they made plans to meet up that night. Then, he hung up and dialed the number he'd just received.

"Yes?"

"Hey, Rachel?"

"Speaking."

"Hey, my name's Firo Prochainezo, detective grade three with the NYPD. I'm also a friend of Claire's - he gave me this number."

"Claire? He shouldn't have done that."

"Well, you know how he is. Don't worry, this isn't a personal call. I have questions about a trial you covered."

"I work on a lot of trials, since I'm on the court beat. You'll have to be more specific."

"Right - the Smith case? From a few months ago?"

"The mafia assassin. Yes, I remember that. What do you want to know?"

Firo thought back to his list of questions. "Well, first off, why was a case like this such big news? Normally stuff like this gets pushed to the back page. Weird that it caught so much attention."

"And why is it that I should give you this information, Detective Prochainezo? Has there been a development in the case?"

Firo thought for a moment, knowing pulling out the badge didn't work on reporters. They were too experienced to cave due to the force's influence alone, and the successful ones were much too shrewd.

"How about I give you an exclusive on the 'development' in return? Sound fair?"

A few seconds of silence as Rachel considered the offer. "Sounds fair. I'll give you the story, but I advise you not to cheat me on this."

"I won't. I give my word." Firo said.

"Alright. Well, do you remember the scandal involving Senator Beriam earlier this year?"

"Nah, I don't keep up with politics."

"Well, what happened was that the detectives on the Smith case reported the Senator as consorting with the assassin during the investigation. The details of the meeting aren't clear, only that money exchanged hands. The news leaked around the time of the trial, and the Senator came out in defense of Smith, calling him innocent. He put a lot of pressure on the NYPD to reverse the arrest. I am surprised you did not know about it."

"That stuff's all handled by the brass over here. I work the streets, so I don't like to get involved in all that." Firo said, though he seemed to recall Maiza mentioning the incident at some point.

"Yes, well, the involvement of the Senator is what spurred public interest."

"That'll do it." Firo agreed. "Is that why Smith was exonerated?"

"Not exactly. The official reason for the dropped charges is 'insufficient evidence.'"

"Huh? But I read the case files, and it seemed like they had plenty of evidence." Firo said, thinking back to the long list of witnesses and forensic tests he'd skimmed.

"They did. However, much of it was lost or dismissed on technical errors that suddenly came to light. I do not think I have to explain what that means."

"Someone got the case tossed. The Senator, you think? Or the judge?"

"Perhaps. My sources are unclear on that. I can tell you that a lot of suspicion fell on the defense attorney, though. Within the media, there was speculation that he'd traded favors to get the evidence thrown out."

"Why the lawyer? Instead of the other guys."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not exactly sure. He had a lot to lose on the case, and he had an affluent background, so that may have been why. I suspect some of the involved parties within the courts may have begun the rumor. Nonetheless, I would look there first."

"I know that." Firo said, not appreciating being told how to do his job. "Alright, let me give you your story."

He only spent a few minutes relaying the events of the crime to Rachel, since he could only give out cleared information. A lot of it was the usual party line about ongoing investigations and committing all resources and other vague affirmations. Still, he promised that he'd contact her again once he could give more news on the situation.

Staring at the case file again, Firo took a pencil and tapped it over all the names of the major involved parties: The Senator, the judge, the lawyer. He hovered over Luck's name for a second, but bypassed it. He didn't see Luck involving himself in the bureaucratic mess. Instead, he circled the name of the defense attorney, deciding that was where he'd start investigating. Wherever there was underhanded business, there was motive for murder, especially when it involved political intrigue. He studied the name and made a resolution to himself.

"Dallas Genoard, eh? Well, I hope you're ready, because I am going to take you down."


	5. The DA Has An Unexpected Visitor

_ Ring-ring. Ring-ring._

Luck pushed his office door open with his hip, a cup of coffee in one hand and a wrapped-up sandwich in the other. He'd just returned from a lunch run to his favorite Italian bistro down the street, after a morning meeting with his older brothers. Hearing his phone going off, Luck hurried over to his desk and put down the two items. However, by the time he picked up the receiver, whoever had called had already hung up, leaving the dial tone ringing in his ear. Luck sighed, hoping it hadn't been important. If it was, they'd probably call back, but Luck didn't like to keep people waiting.

Resigned, the attorney sat down in his office chair and leaned over his desk. His spacious office was meticulously organized, with not a hair out of place. It was also minimalistic, with only a couple file cabinets, a single guest chair, and his oak desk occupying the space. Atop his desk, stacks of paper sat to the side, with a couple files taking the center. A portrait of the young Gandor and his brothers on the desk corner constituted the only personal touch in the whole room.

As he usually did after a meeting with his family, Luck gazed at the picture of his brothers, marveling at how little time changed them.

Keith made precinct Commander a few years back, to the surprise of no one. Their father had held the same position in the same precinct. Keith wasn't the best officer, nor did he like the street work, but he had a knack for command and administration. Luck knew that from a young age, when after their father died, the eldest brother automatically and skillfully assumed leadership of his siblings. Luck heard some grumblings at times about Keith's staunch traditionalist stances, but overall, the man performed well.

Berga currently stood as head security at a correctional institute nearby, the one at which most of the criminals Keith's precinct apprehended ended up. Luck thought it had been a smart career move; Berga's strength made law enforcement an option, but his lower intelligence levels meant advancement in that field was unlikely. At corrections, however, the man excelled. Mostly because all you had to do was instill fear in the prisoners, which Berga was exceptional at.

And as for Claire - well, Luck had no idea where Claire even was anymore. He assumed the adopted brother still worked as a private eye, but they hadn't spoken in a while. Luck kept waiting for Claire to grow bored with investigative work, but the freelancer kept surprising him with his excitement over the job. He didn't enthuse over it as much as he had over the circus job, but the man enjoyed it nonetheless. Luck considered trying to give Claire a call, but he knew the flighty man would contact him when he felt like it.

Finished his reminiscing, Luck unwrapped his lunch as he looked over the files on his desk. He didn't have any hot cases at the moment, just a few prosecutions that would likely end in a plea bargain. Luck preferred those types of cases. No matter how hard he tried to put up a good front, Luck didn't think he was naturally cutthroat enough for trial work. Really, he didn't think he was cut out for lawyer work in general, but his family expected him to go into law, to complete the triage, and so he had without protest.

The strong scent of oregano and pepper permeated the air as he took a bite of the Italian hoagie. As he ate, Luck flipped open the first file on his desk, a new arrival from his assistant that morning. He read over the details - woman murdered in a domestic fight, perpetrator arrested on scene, fingerprints on the knife used. After only a paragraph, Luck's appetite disappeared, and he put his lunch down. His face blanched a little at the description, and he closed his eyes and tried to will the image of the homicide from his mind. Such crimes didn't used to make him feel sick, but now - Luck took a sip from his coffee to settle his nerves.

_Knock-knock!_

Before he could return to his work, someone knocked on Luck's office door. He closed the file and stood up, wondering who had stopped by. His assistant was out on errands, and his calendar showed no appointments until later that afternoon. He straightened his tie and combed his fingers through his hair, in case one of his superiors had decided to drop in.

When he opened the door, however, a young woman he didn't recognize stood in front of him. She was a petite girl, at least a head shorter than him, in a modest pink dress. Too feminine for this place, he thought. And too young to have a position with the office. An intern maybe?

"May I help you?" He asked.

The girl stuck out her hand, in the manner of one feigning confidence.

"Hello. I'm Ms. Genoard. Eve Genoard."

Ever courteous, Luck took her hand and shook it, surprised at her strong grip. She seemed determined to make him take her seriously.

"Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Genoard?" He asked.

"Please, call me Eve. Do you think I could have a minute of your time?" She said.

Luck inclined his head and stepped aside, gesturing inside. He had some work to get done that afternoon, but it would be rude to turn her away. He'd take her word on it that she'd only need a bit of his time. As she thanked him and walked inside, he tried to figure out what the young woman could possibly want from him.

"You are free to take a seat over there, if you wish." He offered, pointing to the austere wooden chair in the corner. As she followed his directions, Luck walked behind his desk and retook his seat in the creaking office chair.

Luck waited for her to settle into the chair before asking, "So what might this be regarding?"

Across from him, Eve crossed her legs, folding her hands atop her knees. It was the prim posture of someone raised with etiquette.

"You are the Mr. Gandor who led the case against the Runarata man, correct?"

She referred to an incident from the year prior, when the department brought charges against a Lieutenant from one of the NYPD's biggest drug divisions. The official had led a ring of corrupt employees - from officers to members of the brass - who swiped and switched out confiscated drugs from evidence and resold them for a hefty profit. An unfortunately common crime amongst those sections of law enforcement, but the papers had played up this particular case anyway. It was the trial that landed Luck the District Attorney position.

"Yes, that would be correct." He said. "But I cannot take credit for that. Many other good men contributed as well."

Eve nodded, but she reached into her purse and dug out a crumpled newspaper article. Straightening it out on her knee, she stood up and walked over to hand it to him. Hesitant, Luck took the paper from her hands and looked at it.

"But you are the man from this article, right?"

Luck skimmed the article, a standard coverage of the trial just after the opening statements had been made. He must have stopped to give a few choice lines to the press after the court let out, because they'd quoted him.

'It is the duty of the public servant to ensure corruption and deception do not destroy the trust that...I am committed to outing fraud wherever it may be...It is my job and my honor...' Luck vaguely remembered making those statements, but he hadn't thought anyone would take them seriously. It was just the game you played in the career, an image you sold to the public who wouldn't remember your name anyway.

"Right. Look, I still don't know what you're getting at, Ms. Eve." Luck said, folding the article and setting it aside.

Shifting in her seat, Eve didn't look at Luck as she said, "I have reason to believe there's something going on with a couple of the local NYPD precincts. And I need someone who will believe me, who is willing to look into it. From this article, you seem like exactly that type of man."

_Great_, Luck thought as he leaned back in his chair, _she wants me to go on a crusade. Probably crazy, too._

"Why don't you tell me why you've arrived at this conclusion." He said.

"Well, I'm not sure if you've heard of me at all. I'm a student of psychology, and as part of my studies, I've assisted on the psychological testing of NYPD officers. The department recently ordered a wide-scale mandatory testing of their most at-risk workers." She explained.

The subject sounded familiar. Luck recalled hearing about it from some contacts on the law enforcement side of the system. Usually in the form of complaints. And he'd heard something about a young psychology student somewhere. Luck narrowed his eyes as he tried to place the memory. When it hit him, he leaned forward and folded his hands together.

"Wait a minute - Eve Genoard? You wouldn't happen to be the younger sister of one _Dallas _Genoard, would you?" He asked.

Luck scolded himself for not making the connection earlier. Genoard wasn't exactly a common last name, after all. But he remembered hearing about the young girl in connection to the defense attorney, whose loud and ill-fated career made for frequent gossip in the workplace.

Eve looked down and nodded. "Yes. We haven't spoken in some time though, and that's not related to this at all."

"Your brother is a disgraceful human being. If you're asking me to assist him somehow, it won't happen." Luck said.

With sudden energy, Eve looked the D.A straight in the eyes, expression firm. "Please don't speak of my brother that way. He - he has a good heart. And this isn't about him, I told you."

Though he didn't appreciate speaking with Dallas's younger sister, or having her give him an order, Luck had to appreciate her determination. To come and speak with a man who'd opposed her brother countless times? Took some courage. And her innocent defense of her brother reminded him of his own familial connections. Though he hadn't been innocent in quite some time, if ever.

For these reasons, he sighed and said, "Alright. What is it, then?"

Eve took a deep breath before explaining. "Some of the psychological reports I worked on went missing recently. I turned a couple in to the administration, but when I tried to get record of their receipt, I was told they didn't exist. And certain files from my computer at the department will just disappear."

Luck rose an eyebrow. "Are you sure it's not just a technical problem?"

She shook her head. "No. When I asked one of the Captains there about it, I was told to not ask questions about it. Or else forfeit any chance of a career."

"He threatened you?"

"Yes. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know who I could trust with this."

Luck nodded. "And then you found the article."

"I remembered reading it a while ago. Please, Mr. Gandor, you have to help me figure this out. I just know you're the right person for this." She implored.

The refusal bubbled to his lips, an automatic dismissal of this responsibility that had nothing to do with him. He had every right to turn down the request, even disregarding the fact that the girl was Dallas Genoard's sister. But he froze, caught by the naked trust in her eyes, and he had to ask himself if he had the heart to stamp out that innocence. Maybe it was because of his own corrupted spirit, but Luck was surprised to find he wanted to preserve that spark of trust in the woman's eyes. He too had believed in the system at one point in time, and it refreshed and pained him to see someone who still possessed that naive faith.

Instead of the rejection, Luck found himself asking, "What precinct was this?"

Eve's eyes lit up. "The one down on East 67th Street."

Luck closed his eyes and tried to recall who he knew in that precinct. He mostly prosecuted cases out of Keith's section, but every now and then he'd have involvements with others throughout the city. He'd always been brilliant at networking, so he formed a lot of connections in his career. It took a couple seconds before it struck him.

"Wait - That's Placido Russo's precinct, isn't it?" He asked, referring to the Commander who'd held his position there for a good number of years. Luck had a passing acquaintanceship with the man, whom he possessed no fondness for. He suspected Placido took significant kickbacks from his work, but no one could make any accusations stick. The precinct was infamous for its nepotism and for being a bureaucratic nightmare.

"Yes, it is." Eve confirmed.

Although Luck enjoyed the idea of finally cutting down the pompous Commander, he knew any inquiry into the precinct's operations would be a mess to deal with. Still, it couldn't hurt to look around and see if he could pick up a bit of information, just enough to satisfy the young woman.

"Alright. I'll look into this for you. But I'm not making any guarantees, okay? I might not find anything." He said.

Eve jumped up from her chair and walked over to the desk. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Gandor. I knew you'd understand."

"Don't mention it. Leave me your number, and I'll contact you if anything happens." He said.

Eve obliged, writing it down on the back of one of Luck's business cards, her handwriting small and neat. He took it and slipped it into his pocket, to file away later. He doubted anything would actually come of this investigation, but he wanted her to think he was actually confident of it.

"I look forward to hearing from you." She said, sticking out her hand.

Luck nodded, plastering on a polite smile for her sake. He reached out and shook her hand again, sealing their unwritten agreement.

" I'd advise you not to say too much about this to anyone else, understand? You never know who might be resentful of such accusations." Luck warned. Even if her suspicions proved untrue, many people did not appreciate any questioning of the department's integrity.

"I understand. Thank you again, Mr. Gandor."

"You are welcome, Ms. Eve."

With a small smile, she nodded and backed away from the desk. "I'll leave you be then. Take care."

"Take care yourself. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"A pleasure." She repeated.

And then she headed to the door, and she was gone. Luck pushed his chair back and pulled open one of his desk drawers. Rooting through it, he pulled out a file of contacts from various divisions and precincts. As he picked out names to call and connections to place an inquiry to, Luck wondered just how much work this little task was going to end up being. He didn't trust a single person he knew in that precinct, though he only realized that once he started sorting through the names. He looked at the picture of his family again and thought to himself.

'_What have I gotten myself into?'_

* * *

A/N: Thank you for everyone who reviewed! I appreciate it greatly. And thanks for reading - I hope you enjoy this chapter.


	6. The Officers Embark on Their Adventure

"I can't believe Mr. Nico sent us out on another one of these cases. They're always so boring, we never get to fight or anything! No excitement, no fun, no nothing at all. Don't you think so, amigo?"

"Hm, well, I think Mr. Keith says we're too _new_ to take on any of the big cases."

"I respect anything Mr. Keith tells us, but we've proven our worth, haven't we? We took down those thieves last week, just a swish chop slash and they were on the ground! Like that!"

"I thought you did very well, Maria. But the media got really mad about it. So maybe we should just try to get them to _stop _next time."

"Hmph, but that's no fun. They let my skills go to waste with this. Bad people deserve bad things, right, amigo? So who cares if they get a little hurt in the process?"

"Well, I agree with you, but I still want to make Mr. Keithand Mr. Nico happy."

"I know, I know, but they'll be happy when we destroy all crime with our own hands, yes?"

"Yes, but - _oh_, I think we've arrived."

The two uniformed officers, who'd been walking along the sidewalk, stopped in front of a destroyed building, examining the remnants of the former office building. The ground smoldered, a black expanse upon which charred bits and pieces of material laid broken and devoured. The air stifled beneath the pungent smell of charcoal and acidic, ashy smoke. Around the burnt site, a sparse crowd of people lingered, curious onlookers drawn in by the promise of disaster.

At the sight, similar to all the other 'suspicious fire' scenes they'd reported to over the last month, the female officer frowned. She wasn't too long out of the academy, and she'd spent a lot of time bouncing from section to section within the department. A strong woman, with confident poise and an expressive but often childish face, Maria Barcelito had a tendency to clash with her superiors, so they transferred her often. Part of it likely had to do with the sword strapped at her side, which was highly against regulation, but which she insisted on keeping with her. Finally, someone tossed her over to a rookie unit in Keith Gandor's precinct, where they had another officer with a similar penchant for weaponry.

Tick Jefferson, who'd been assigned as her partner as soon as her transfer was complete, noticed the expression immediately. Also rather new to the force, he'd always been with Keith Gandor's precinct. Though his official role was as a regular, low-grade officer, he quickly made a name for himself as the unofficial, go-to interrogation specialist. At his side, he'd strapped his weapon of choice - two pairs of scissors that he fingered constantly. He only felt comfortable with them in his hands, but he had to compromise and keep them holstered when making official inquiries.

"What are you thinking, Maria?"

She huffed. "I'm _thinking _that it looks just like the last couple we did. Remember those, amigo? Faulty wiring, they said. Stove left burning, cigarette on the ground, nothing to investigate, they said. So many better things we could be doing."

Tick tapped a finger to his cheek. "Mmm, but I think, isn't it important to make sure there really is no foul play? So what we're doing is _important _after all."

"Still, any rookie could do it, amigo. It's like a waste of our potential!"

Smiling, Tick's expression lit up as he decided to try to cheer up his headstrong partner. Her dissatisfaction with Nico's orders wasn't a new experience for him, so he had a decent idea of how to handle it. He liked that he was able to do that for her - be a source of encouragement. In Tick's mind, he wasn't exceptionally skilled at anything but using his scissors, so he enjoyed knowing he could be good at this too.

"_Well_, maybe it's not just an accident, this time. It could be an insurance scam, maybe. _Oh_, or an arson." He suggested.

Maria's eyes widened, as a grin bloomed on her expression. "Do you really think so, amigo? Oh, I hope so, I really hope so."

Already a beautiful woman, the smile made her face even more visually appealing, and Tick thought the flower in her hair suited her well, because both looked so pretty. Maybe he should give her a flower, sometime? Keith's secretary, Edith, always had a lot to spare, and he liked the idea of cutting them up. Before he could register it, he'd taken the scissors from his holster and started snipping at the air. Like a natural extension of his body, he barely realized he was doing it.

"Yes, I do think so. And I hope it is too." He said, as he maneuvered the scissors in the air.

Used to it, and not a stickler for the rules, Maria didn't so much as blink at the blades that danced near her. She trusted Tick's competence with them enough that she felt no fear at their proximity. Instead, she focused on the glimmer of hope his words provided.

"Ah, yes, a dastardly con man, perhaps. Ooh, or an arsonist on the loose, and it's up to us to stop him." Maria said, fantasizing about finally catching an adventure, one on which she could employ her beloved sword.

Tick nodded. "Mm, if only someone had _died _in the fire. Then we'd have a really interesting case. Oh well."

"If only, amigo." Maria agreed, sighing.

As the two officers took a moment of silence to envision the case that could have been, utterly oblivious to the implications of their wishing for someone's death, a man who had been surveying the scene approached them.

"Are you two quite done fooling around?"

The two officers turned to find the district's head Fire Inspector - Goose Perkins - bearing down on them, his expression locked in that perpetual grim contortion that drove tense grooves into his face. Tick tried to recall if he ever saw Mr. Goose so much as smirk, but his memory comes up blank. He wondered which nerves he'd have to slice to elicit an emotional outburst. Which tendons he'd have to cut through, which fingers he'd have to sever, to break his restraint.

_Snip-snip_

His scissors clicked at his sides as he imagined having the chance to work on such an outwardly composed person. He thought he'd learn a lot from such an experience, and this kept the innocuous smile on his face even though he'd been rebuked.

Maria, on the other hand, glared at the man. She did not trust him, as she'd come across the inspector on several other occasions. He always criticized her and never allowed for any excitement on the job. Plus, she thought he was sketchy. Sometimes, when he spoke, there was a cruel laugh that ran just beneath his words, almost perfectly concealed, like a serpent in the grass. Whatever his agenda was, and whatever he found so secretly amusing, she wanted no part in it. She had no qualms with running rogue, but since she could not stand Goose, she rejected the idea of exploring his undoubtedly underhanded purposes.

"We are not fooling around, _amigo_. We are doing our job. We're supposed to respond to the scene and wait here until the Fire Inspector does his job. No fooling, no messing around, nothing but waiting for you." She said, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Nothing is correct, I see." Goose said. "Not even interviewing the witnesses, as I would expect of you."

Seeing Maria's temper rising, Tick stepped in and said, "Um, Mr. Goose, we were told there _were_ no witnesses. So I think, Maria is not _wrong_."

"But there was a first on scene, was there not? In which case you interview them. You are ignorant to procedure as ever, I presume, Officer Jefferson." Goose said.

"Mmm, you are probably right. I'm not very smart. I'm sorry." Tick said. His smile stayed perfectly in place, and no shame tainted his agreement. He accepted his own lack of intelligence. Everyone had always told him he was stupid, after all, so it had to be true, right? He could see with his own eyes the effects his inability to understand stuff had on people, so he had to believe it.

However, Maria had a harder time accepting the conclusion he so casually tossed out whenever faced with a mistake or a miscommunication. Besides, she'd seen Tick study regulations and standard procedure hard, when they hung out after work. She would not stand for such an easy dismissal of all that effort. Scowling, she stomped a foot and jabbed a finger towards the inspector.

"Hey, hey, you don't talk to Tick like that, amigo. He's smarter than some stuck-up, mean guy like you are." She snapped.

"Oh? And do you think your superiors will agree when I speak with them?" Goose said.

"A coward's game. You're just a coward, amigo, and there's nothing worse than a coward. How about we let my sword decide your worth, that sound better?"

"I will not fight with a woman such as yourself. I am a gentleman, not some scoundrel."

Hesitant, Tick laid a hand on Maria's shoulder, halting the motion she'd made towards drawing her weapon.

"Mr. Goose? I would really like it if you could give us your _conclusion _now. I think that would make _all _of us very happy." He said, effectively cutting off the impending fight.

Tick did not want to see Maria rebuked once more by their bosses. And he knew she got transferred around a lot, so he understood the risk of her leaving their precinct if an incident should occur. Tick wanted to try his best to prevent that from occurring, since it would mean she'd have to stop being his partner if it did.

Fortunately for the pair, Goose was not in the mood to pick a fight with two rookie police officers. He reported to a higher office than them, and his connections stretched high up on the political chain, so they were small game as far as he was concerned. He could pick them off at any time, should he be so inclined. So they were not worth his frustration, at the moment.

"So we will have it, then." He said. "I have concluded, in my expert analysis of the scene, that the fire was deliberately set. Evidence from the site so far indicates the use of an accelerant. I do not have more information for you at the current time, but I shall rule this as foul play."

Even her loathing of Goose could not dull the sheen in Maria's eyes at the report, at the prospect of an exciting case at last.

"Like an arsonist, amigo?"

"Perhaps. More likely some hoodlums' idea of fun, or one of the deranged homeless around the city. Not a case worth my time. I will pass further analysis off to Ms. _Holystone_ at your department's lab. It is more her speed." He said, his voice curdling with derision when he uttered the name of one of the department's lab technicians.

"Fine, fine, just leave it to us, amigo. You know, to the people who can appreciate a real case when we see it." She said.

"I'll leave you to it, then. You'll get my official report within the week." Goose said, his tone making it clear he believed nothing would come of their efforts. He did not so much as bid them goodbye as he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving them to address the desolate scene.

As soon as he was out of sight, Maria spun to face Tick. "What do you think, amigo? Do you think it's really just some punks playing tricks? I can still cut them up real good, but it won't be as exciting as a _real _bad guy, nope."

"_Well_, Mr. Goose is probably wrong about that. I might be mistaken, but I don't think hoodlums strike in the _afternoon_, do they?" Tick said.

Maria thought over the suggestion. He had a point - usually, young delinquents struck at night. Same for the homeless people who occasionally caused trouble. The case had the markings of an arson - an empty building, deliberate use of accelerant, no witnesses around. And yet, something seemed off to Maria. She just couldn't pinpoint what.

"I think you're right. Amigo - would an office like this be open in the late afternoon? I do not get why it was closed when it burnt so early." She said. The fire had been called in at approximately six in the evening.

_Snip-snip-snip_

The rhythm of Tick's scissors denoted his thinking, as he tossed the question around in his mind. He wanted to get the right answer for Maria badly; he had not seen her so excited for a case in so long. Their cases were always the most fun when Maria caught enthusiasm for them. He smiled at the thought of her contagious energy.

"Mmm, well, it's not just an office, it's a _lawyer's _office, right? And a government-sponsored one, too. So it might close earlier. I don't know for sure, I am sorry." He said.

Maria beamed at the answer and spread her arms out wide as she looked upon the charred remains of the building.

"I think we've caught an exciting one here, amigo!"

Though he hated to be the bearer of bad news to his friend, Tick knew he'd have to broach the subject of their jurisdiction at some point.

"If it's an _arson _case, Mr. Nico probably wants us to turn it over to the _arson _division, though." He said. "Hmm, and if it's _government_, it'll go to those two guys in the _Martillo _sector."

Unfazed, Maria shook her head, refusing to accept the idea of passing up on what could potentially be a fun adventure. One during which she hoped she'd finally get to take down someone who matched her skill. Besides, she had an inkling that there was more to the case than met the eye.

"Well, we don't know it's a real arson for sure yet, now do we, amigo? We should investigate more first, before we decide that, right? That's what I believe. What about you? What do you say, amigo?" She pressed, extending a hand to him.

Tick tilted his head, considering. Strictly speaking, he was probably supposed to encourage her to let Mr. Nico, or even Mr. Keith, make that decision. But he recognized the gleam in her eye, what laid beneath the stunning grin. She'd noticed something, had some suspicion regarding the case, that he had not picked up on. This neither surprised nor bothered Tick; he was happy for Maria, seeing how observational she was. He admired her for being more intelligent than him. And he knew she'd divulge her suspicions when she was ready. Most likely, she could not even put it into words yet. So he'd be patient.

All of that was superfluous to his decision, though. All he needed was the joy on her face, that innocent thrill of anticipation that lit her expression so brilliantly, to find his answer. Thoughts, suspicions, responsibilities and morality - none of that he could see, so none of that he could factor into his decision. But her overt happiness - that was clear to him, held weight, and so he could stake his bets on it.

He holstered his scissors and took her hand into his own, clutching tight.

"I believe you, Maria. So I say - let's go for it."

And so, joined with their hands and their unabashed smiles and their kindred spirits, the two rookies begun their investigation, hoping eagerly to uncover an adventure along the way.

* * *

A/N: Well, this wraps up most of the major exposition so far as central characters go. I'm excited to start getting into the thick of things, plot-wise, soon. Thank you for reading! And especially thank you to those who have reviewed or favorited/followed - I appreciate it very much and I am so glad you enjoy the story!


	7. The Private Eyes Make Their Gameplan

Crowds of people, darting around in little mobs and lines that interweave and intersect, a few lone souls standing apart. The rumble of engines and the frustrated blare of car horns, as the mechanical objects plodded along the streets, the flow of traffic caught and tangled like a knot. A whiff of acrid smoke from the left, pungent and sticking, and the greasy aroma of fresh-baked pizza from the right, the signal of a nearby dining district. A shout and a cry and the sound of footsteps pounding on concrete, no doubt a thief making off with some careless tourist's wallet.

And above the commotion, overlooking it all from a wide, third-story window - a man whose smirk and steady gaze conveyed the utter, unshakeable sense of total ownership. This was his city, every grain of filth and every glimmer of treasure within its concrete boundaries. Every person meandering along, every car zipping through, belonged to him. Every inspiring love story between two people, and every ugly tragedy that tore the soul apart, each equally set squarely upon his shoulders.

Sometimes this idea confounded him, stretching the limits of even his brilliant mind - even more so when he thought about the rest of the world that also sprung from his existence. But at other times, at the ones when it mattered, it granted him a sense of comfort. Nothing was out of his control. Nothing was beyond his ability. Nothing.

Especially not this case.

A tap on his shoulder brought his focus back to the present situation, and Claire Stanfield turned to find Chane standing there, sheets of paper in hand. Freshly printed, he could smell the fresh scent of ink wafting off of them. It suited Chane, he thought, with her ink-black hair and sharp, addicting personality. Earthy, too -that was, she always managed to bring _him_ back to earth.

"You got the papers already? That was fast. You must've won them over with your charm." Claire said, trying to snatch the papers from her hand.

She held them back. _'That's not what I used.'_

"It's what won me over."

_ 'There wasn't much room for charm while we were fighting off terrorists.' _She said, reminding him of the circumstances of their meeting.

"Ah, so did you use your knives to threaten them into submission, then?"

_ 'They knew I could have.' _

The pair of investigators had arrived at the bank just an hour prior, with the intention of digging up financial information on the missing Dallas Genoard. They knew a couple of people associated with the bank - a passing knowledge, the kind of acquaintanceship that still requires greased hands for favors. Usually, this posed no problem, but Claire wasn't in the mood to be jerked around that day, so he'd headed over dead-set on intimidating them into handing over any pertinent information.

"You didn't have to go meet with them, you know. I could have handled it. I don't get why you felt the need to take my place."

_ 'I wanted to do this. I want to take my own action too, Claire.'_

Truth be told, most of Chane's reasons for insisting on speaking with their contacts in Claire's stead had to do with her not wanting him to stir any trouble up in the city. She had confidence that Claire could deal with anything and come out on top, but she still would rather this case not be unnecessarily painful for everyone involved. Plus, she did not like when Claire forced his way into taking the lead on every part of their work. It often left her feeling useless.

"Well, whatever the case, your ability astonishes me, Chane." He said, throwing an arm around her shoulder. "Now, here's the question - do we read them here? Or take them back home or something?"

_ 'We'll read them here. We have to pick up dinner before we go home, remember?'_

Claire stared at her, tilting his head.

After realizing he did not understand, Chane added, _'Because Firo is coming over?'_

"Oh, right, that. I told him to bring food over for that."

_ 'Why_ - ' The question bubbled to her mind, but she decided against it. Although it was completely improper to ask the guest to bring dinner, it was exactly the type of thing that Claire was prone to doing. And if she asked, he'd only bring her deeper into that strange logic of his, and she did not have the time to wrangle with that today. So she'd just accept it.

_ 'Well then we have time to read here.' _Chane amended.

Claire agreed with this. Besides, the faster they got the case out of the way, the more time they had to just be on their own enjoying the city. One day already had him deciding he did not like the person they were locating, so he wasn't particularly invested in the case. He walked over to one of the couches put in place for the bank's clientele and plopped down on it, gesturing for Chane to do the same. She lowered herself down next to him and, when he didn't try to grab them, handed him the papers she'd just acquired.

_'I haven't looked over them yet. Tell me what you think.' _She instructed.

Nodding, the private eye scanned over the first sheet of paper, and then he progressively flipped through each report. He wasn't too great with numbers - math was too dry to hold his attention during his education - but he figured an elementary kid could grasp the patterns in Dallas Genoard's records.

"Lucky for us, this guy uses his card for everything. Booze, some bookie debts, more booze, a casino debt, another bar bill, some clothes from a store he can't afford to shop at, import cigars - looks like we got ourselves a real winner here, huh?" He said.

_'Every man has his vices.'_

"You defending this guy, Chane?" It wasn't an accusation. The only inflection in his voice was that of curiosity.

_'No. None of those are his vices.'_

Claire mulled over her statement for a while, scanning over the sheets one more time before the implication of her words hit him. His eyes widened, and he shuffled the papers quickly as he tried to pinpoint a certain pattern.

"Because his vice is greed, isn't it?" He said. "Smart, Chane. How lucky I am to have such a smart woman."

Though she felt her face grow a tad warm, Chane kept her expression frigid. She did not know how to deal with Claire's compliments still, even after all this time.

When he found what he was looking for, Claire jabbed at the paper, grinning at his own success. Whenever there existed a problem in need of solving, his world opened up to show him the path, no exceptions. Moments like this reaffirmed his belief in his position as the universe's indisputable center.

"Regular deposits. Thousands of dollars apiece. Pretty regularly spaced, too, every couple of months. He was being paid off. Illegally - I'll bet on it." Claire said, memorizing where the deposits were for later.

_'Does the_ _statement tell you where it comes from?'_

Still smiling, Claire shook his head, "Nah, just gives an account and what sounds like a fake corporation. Still, it'll be no time before we sew this one shut."

Even though he presented no method or evidence towards making the affirmation true, Chane believed him with all of her heart. His certainty was catching, and she found herself sure that they'd close up their business in New York City quickly as well.

_'What is his last purchase or withdrawal?' _She asked, remembering that line of investigation. She knew to always keep in mind any possibility, especially since Claire liked to grab a hold of one avenue and run with it.

"Some restaurant down in the lower-east part of town. I don't recognize it." He said.

She peered over at the paper. _'Neither do I.'_

Claire shrugged and folded up the papers. He creased them firmly until he could fit them into his pocket, and then he stood from the chair and held out a hand to Chane. She took it and got to her feet as well.

"So I guess we have our plan then." Claire said.

To her surprise, Chane found herself automatically nodding, and she meant it. She did not even have to ask Claire about the details, which he had not even hinted at, of where they'd proceed next. When Firo came over, they'd ask him for information on the faux company on the bank statements, and hopefully figure out who was behind the bribes. Since Dallas was a lawyer, the illicit payments probably originated from somewhere in the justice system, so Firo would have the inside scoop on that. And then, sometime in addition to that, they'd go to the restaurant to trace the Genoard's last known moments.

Chane grasped all this without even having to reason it out; the knowledge just popped into her mind as if Claire had told her all of it. Looking at him, the confident smile on his lips and the gleam in his eye that put him at odds with the whole world, she wondered if their silent communication actually came double-sided. Perhaps she, too, had learned to speak the unspoken language of his strange mind.

Unsure what to make of the thought, she gripped his hand tighter. Then, looking into his eyes, she gave her agreement. And she prepared herself for the path ahead, certain that, whatever may come, she could trust her own abilities and Claire's rock-steady faith in himself and his world to carry them through it. Together.

_'It's a plan.'_

* * *

A/N: Shorter chapter, sorry, but that's what the story called for. Well, thank you for reading! Classes have now started for me, but I will try to keep this update schedule still, since it seems to be working out well.


	8. The Consultants Don Their Disguises

A tropical beach laid before him, a scene right out of a travel brochure. The sand stretched into the blue horizon, clean and almost perfectly white and as soft and comforting as a mattress. Like a lullaby, the tide carried in and out, a gentle whooshing that rose and fell like the beat of a metronome. Above, the sun beat down, causing everything below to glow, basking in the warm touch of the light rays.

_Crash!_

And with an ear-shattering noise, the dream broke. The beachside scenery cracked into pieces, falling away like broken glass as consciousness and reality forced its way in.

The bright landscape became a drab image, gray concrete dominating the eye in every direction. Any light came from the flickering fluorescent bulbs, which hurt to look upon and brought out every flaw and ugly blemish in the room like a highlighter. And instead of the ocean tide, the sound of loud, chattering voices assaulted the ear, along with the sputtering rumble of an engine somewhere near.

"Oh, oh, what's this I see? Are you sleeping on the job? You ought to be ashamed of your unprofessionalism."

Shaft blinked a few times as the world came into focus, eyelids heavy from his brief nap. He didn't remember slipping into sleep, but not too much time could have passed. Sitting on the cold concrete floor, his back pressed against the wall, Shaft had to tilt his head up to see his partner standing over him. Graham's wrench lodged into the wall beside him, the source of the clatter.

In contrast to Shaft's weary face, with the dark circles forming beneath his eyes and a pale tone washing out his skin, Graham was positively radiating. Even the sun in his dream hadn't shone as brilliantly as Graham's enthusiasm. Usually, this invigorated him, one of the sources of his admiration for the mechanic. Today, though, all it did was remind him of his own exhaustion and fill him with bitterness.

"Forgive me. You're absolutely right. Those few hours of sleep I got three days ago should be more than enough to keep me going, Boss."

"You want to know what's going to be a sad story? When you fail to take this seriously and we fail our case as a result, and we end up disappointing Boss Ladd. All because of you, I'll have to sink to my knees before him, bearing the shame of failure. No amount of pain by his hands could expunge that sin from my soul. And why? Because _you_ were _tired_. Can you imagine anything more horrible, more bleak, more _heartbreaking?_"

"Yes, I can, actually. It's called my _everyday life_."

With another _crash_, Graham brought his wrench down to slam onto the ground just inches away from his partner's feet. His eyes flashed, those watery circles boiling with the hot energy of his frustration. The other man had done nothing but complain since last night. This in itself was not an unusual event, but unlike usual, the edge in his normally facetious words ran razor sharp. In his mind, Graham imagined taking Shaft apart, joint by joint, until the man's sour attitude came undone as well.

But there was no time. Not today, anyway. A couple hours ago, they'd arrived at the factory rumored to house the auto theft ring to which the homicide victim had belonged. Ever since, Graham had been trying to worm his way into their good favors, by convincing them he just wished to take part in their operation. With his dismantling skills, he'd easily put himself in their good graces. But the more he talked, the more he felt that positive fortune fading.

Shaft, on the other hand, stayed to the side during Graham's little performance with the auto gang. The pair had spent the morning scrounging up disguises and fake identifications, and they'd settled on Shaft's cover story being that he merely assisted and drove around Graham, who posed as a talented mechanic. Shaft could not help but wonder how this was any different from their _actual _identities. The only deviance seemed to be in their physical disguises, the complete inverse of their normal attire.

The usually well-dressed man wore tattered denim pants stained with oil and lubricant, paired with a blue muscle shirt that hung loose on his thin frame. Nearly covering his eyes, he'd pulled a navy beanie cap over his hair. Dark grease smeared across his face, which Graham insisted on applying himself, taking obvious joy in dirtying the prim man.

As for Graham - the mechanic wore a loose brown suit, which appeared completely unnatural on his body. The buttons mismatched and the sleeves were rolled up to uneven lengths. The tie had been lost hours prior. The whole day, Graham fidgeted with the outfit, unable to leave it simply put together. Still, wrangling the man into the normal attire, which Graham loathed, was the only glimmer of enjoyment Shaft had managed to glean from the entire affair.

"Have you had any luck with them?" Shaft asked. His hope of escaping had died out a couple hours ago, so he figured he might as well try to close up the operation as quickly as possible. The more quickly they found their answer, the sooner he could retire home to bed.

"Do you even know how going undercover works, Shaft? To assume one can just _find _the sought after information is such a fallacy that it makes me laugh to even think about it. No, no, no, it'll take much more work to crack into the truth. I'd say, oh, maybe, another week's worth of this?"

"_What?_ You plan to keep this up for another _week_? But Boss, then we'd end up _actually _involved in criminal activity." Shaft cried, images of them locked behind bars clear in his mind.

"Then we just have to not get caught. What, do you want the murderer to get off free? Was that your plan all along? You must really be keen on betrayal, to conceive of such a horrible notion. Are you, at this moment, planning to stab me in the back, Shaft?" Graham said. He pondered the possibility of that question. It would certainly explain why Shaft had been so harsh all day.

"Oh, so any concern for my own health is a betrayal to you? What a fair system you've constructed." Shaft said.

"Well, here's how I see it. Here's the sad story that I've been living out. I've spent hours now trying to figure out the answers to this case so that you can stop being so upset, and then me and Boss Ladd _and _you can all be happy. And what have you contributed? Tell me that, Shaft."

Graham's words held just enough truth in them to hurt. Perhaps he _should _tone down the bitterness and try to be a little more helpful. But then again, Shaft had to take everything Graham said with a grain of salt. For all he knew, Ladd Russo's happiness was the man's _only _concern, as always seemed to be the case.

Whatever the truth, Shaft knew he was fed up with the undercover affair. Graham did nothing but run around the actual issue, weaving a complex web around the culprit. But complexity without a precise design meant plenty of holes for the murderer to slip through.

Shaft had known this from the start, so when he thought about it, he really had no excuse for letting the pointless charade go on for as long as it had.

He sighed. "I apologize, Boss. This is my fault. I left up to you what is clearly my specialty. Allow me to have a word with them?"

Graham narrowed his eyes. He hadn't expected _that _from his partner, instead having braced himself for another sly retort. At least that he could have deciphered, though. This development just left him confused. What did Shaft mean by 'his specialty'? Was he implying that Graham wasn't as good at undercover work? He began to frown, when the rush of another emotion slammed into him, and his lips contorted into a wide grin instead.

"How bold of you, to insult me in such a manner. But I'll allow it. Because now I get to watch you try, and probably fail spectacularly. How bittersweet - that is, sweet for me, and so very _bitter_ for you. I'm jazzed up just thinking about it." Graham declared.

Knowing better than to engage conversation further, or bother to defend himself, Shaft picked himself up and rose to his feet. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched out his arms, so that his joints cracked. Despite the heaviness on his body, the ache in his muscles, Shaft stood straight as a rail as he walked towards the group of thieves.

Automatically, Graham reached to latch onto his partner's arm, but Shaft shook him off with a scowl.

"Stay back, Boss. We're playing a _role_, remember?" He hissed.

Graham huffed. "Fine, fine, alright. When you crash, don't crawl on over to me for comfort, though. It'll pain me too much to turn you away. Don't add insult to the injury you've already caused."

"Whatever you say."

With that, Shaft stuck his hands in his pockets and reached the cluster of autoworkers. To his relief, Graham maintained a reasonable distance, standing several yards away.

That worry packed away, he turned his attention to one man in particular. With his keen eye, Shaft managed to pick out the lead man in the gang with only a quick sweep of the group. It was a simple matter; the man with the bandana was who everyone's glances went towards when Shaft approached, and his stance and position amongst the cluster of people spoke of authority. From his mental files, he extracted the man's name - Tim. Information on the man said he was a prodigal criminal mind and successful in the theft business for a number of years now. And in person, the leader's sharp eyes said he wasn't a man easily duped.

Fortunately, Shaft was an excellent liar. Already, he crafted the personality he'd put forward to his mark, conceptualized the details of his deceit. He made sure to lock eyes with the leader first, and he extended one hand out towards him.

"Tim, I presume?"

The handshake that followed was firm and brief, a clear affirmation of power. Tim did not like new people poking their noses into his operations, not unless they were either recruited by him directly or from someone above him.

"You've heard of me?" Tim asked.

"Of course. Why do you think my boss and I are here? We've been thinking about investing our talents into this _industry _lately, and a mutual associate of ours pointed us to your group."

"Which associate would this be?"

Shaft, who'd read up on all pertinent intelligence on the group last night, tried to pick out a name that would work.

"Christopher? We did some business together down in Brooklyn not too long back." He said. From his information, Christopher Shouldered was an unreliable enough person that Shaft could use him as a plausible cover story. If Christopher never mentioned being in Brooklyn or meeting the pair, no one would think twice of it.

Despite Shaft's plan, though, Tim's eyes narrowed and grew hard. His lips tightened, and a few seconds of tense silence fell over the group as he appraised the man before him.

Then, "What did you say your name was again?"

A test, clearly, Shaft thought. Had his story contradicted Graham's? But Graham talked so much, and so insanely, that Shaft had been betting on no one remembering or taking seriously Graham's claims anyway. Even if they forgot that, though, they'd remember whatever fake names Graham had given them. Shaft tried to recall what his had been, and he prayed that Graham hadn't decided to change their false identities on a whim.

"It's Felix." He said, with a practiced grin.

At the correct answer, Tim seemed to relax a tad, but the whole group still felt on-edge. Shaft did not like this atmosphere, and he wondered whether Graham or himself laid at the root of it.

"Look, Felix," Tim said, "we are always interested in improving our operation. But I'm wary about your - your _boss_, is it?"

"Understandable. Let me explain. My boss, talented as he is, well, he has some severe problems mentally. I'm sure you've noticed, and that's what has put you off."

Behind him, Graham had grown bored with just watching the exchange and was flipping his wrench up and down in the air, complete with twirling motions. Shaft didn't even have to look back to know what was happening; the look in Tim's eyes as the man glanced back there told Shaft everything.

"That's putting it lightly." Tim commented. "But then, he also said you were just an unintelligent lackey of his."

In his mind, Shaft cursed his partner, but his expression remained neutral. "He says a lot of things. The point is, I keep him in check. You can see that, right?"

"You'll have to excuse me, but what I've seen is that he appears to be the one controlling _you_, Mr. Felix."

Sharp. More so than expected. It frustrated him, but Shaft kept composure.

"Of course it does. I have to keep it looking that way, don't I? But I assure you, I have his madness sealed up tight when it comes to important matters."

"I can't afford to just take your word for it."

"But you've seen his talent. You're a smart man, so you _know _he'd be valuable to your work. Or, if we fail to reach a compromise, someone else's work."

At this, Tim had to begrudge the man a point. He'd never seen anyone dismantle a car that quickly, with that amount of precision as well. Though not particularly ambitious, Tim couldn't pass up on the chance to bring such a valuable asset to his side. If only so the mechanic didn't end up a competitor later down the road.

"We're interested, I won't deny you that. But it's not a decision I can make right here and now. There are others that I have to factor into my choice regarding you and your superior." Tim said.

Perfect. Shaft's grinned widened, the touch of genuine happiness softening his expression. He hadn't expected an offer of partnership, not from one meeting. All he'd needed was the foot in the door, the opportunity to go after his true objective.

"I look forward to cooperating with you in the future." Shaft said.

"Same. So just leave a number I can reach you two at, and I'll let you know if we can work something out."

Shaft held up a finger. "One thing, first. You see, we've had rather tenuous relations with one of your group's members. A Roy Maddock, correct?"

The name of the deceased criminal had come in just a few hours ago, after the police confirmed the identity with the next of kin. All that was known about the man was that he had a criminal record that showed heavy past drug use. The next of kin - a girlfriend who actually worked as a secretary for the NYPD - revealed no potential leads during initial interview. The medical examiner's report had yet to arrive into his possession, however, likely due to the low-priority case status.

Tim frowned. "What of him?"

"I just want to make sure I understand exactly where he stands in your organization."

The theft ring leader took a deep breath, a flash of irritation lighting up his eyes. "Well, Roy _was _one of our lower-level associates. But due to recent events, he won't be around any longer. So you have nothing to worry about."

"Recent events? We have some debts to settle with him, you see." Shaft said.

"You'll have to get in line. He's racked up drug debts all over the city, including with us. It appears he's either gone on the run or another binge, as I have not seen him all day. So if you came here in search of him, you'll be disappointed."

_Interesting, _Shaft thought. "That wasn't our primary goal. I'll get you the number and we can work this out at a better time. Sound fair?"

"Let's do that."

A few minutes later, they parted ways with another handshake and a vague promise of getting in contact again. Shaft had given out the number to a disposable cell phone, so he didn't have to worry about being tracked once their consulting gig ran its course. It was a shame, though. He'd only had one conversation with the man, but he found himself quite fond of Tim. Competent and intelligent, the leader was respected enough that no one had interjected during their entire exchange. Shaft thought he would not mind working for someone like _that_.

But as it was, he had to return to his actual partner and 'boss.' Shaft headed over to where he'd left Graham, only to see the man chattering away to one of the women in the group, a silent blonde whose expression showed a cold indifference to his nonsense.

"- So you see, there's really no more magnificent story than that. Wouldn't you agree? Tell me you agree." Graham said as he finished a lengthy rant on money laundering. How the topic had arisen, he'd already forgotten, but it just _felt _important to talk about.

He went to sling an arm around the attractive woman's shoulders, having no real understanding of personal space, and being unable to read the displeasure on her expression. He'd almost completed the move when, with a _whack, _pain tore through his arm, and he realized the girl had kicked his arm away.

A twisted smile warped his face, excitement brightening his entire countenance. Though he registered the hurt, it was a laugh that emerged from his lips.

Prepared to give a speech about the beauty of a woman with strength, he was about to speak when, once again, something halted him. This time, though, it was a rough tug on his opposite arm.

"Time to get out of here, Boss."

Shaft tried to pull his partner in the direction of the exit, knowing he'd be unreceptive to the idea. Unless he'd radically changed his mind about the undercover work in the last ten minutes, which was actually entirely possible.

"Hey, hey, didn't you listen to me earlier? I _said _we're not done here. Are you trying to undermine me? To blatantly go against my desires? Or perhaps, this is just a continuation of your ugly betrayal? Tell me which it is, right now. And I better like the answer." Graham demanded.

Through clenched teeth, Shaft answered, "I got the answer we came here for. Now we should really get going."

"No, no, absolutely no, what kind of performance has this been then? Such a short story can't possibly be right for the grand tale we are living out right now. It's absolutely absurd. Your weak mind just can't understand that we still have work to do."

"Perhaps this is just the prologue of our story, Boss."

It took a little more cajoling, and some sarcastic twisting of Graham's words, but Shaft managed to convince his partner to head out of the factory.

As they walked to the car, all that Shaft could think of was getting home to bed. He was calculating how much time it would take to get back to their apartment when a hard impact slammed into his back and sent him sprawling on the ground.

Graham stood over his partner, wrench clutched tight in his hand. As Shaft gasped for breath, nearly choking, Graham gave him a crooked grin.

"That's for the comment from earlier. Because I'm - oh, what was it? Oh right, right - severely mental. This should teach you a valuable lesson about how words become feelings, which become desires, which become actions, which become consequences. Do you understand me?"

Shaft's already sore body screamed from the pain, but he managed to bring himself back up to his feet. Pale, he placed his hands on the metal hood of the car and leaned against it for balance. Though the incident frayed his already worn nerves, he managed a retort.

"I understand, Boss. I was clearly mistaken, calling someone like you mental."

Graham opened the door for him, and he helped his partner get his trembling body inside it."I'm glad we see eye to eye. Don't let it happen again, and this story will resolve itself happily for you and me both."

"Maybe you can stay here undercover by yourself for a while, _really _give me a story to be happy about." Shaft muttered as the other man got into the passenger seat.

"How kind of you to offer that, but alas, I'll have to stay by your side, as you've insisted so heartwarmingly on retreating for the night. And how can I deny the desire of someone who moves me so? To do so would be a treason of the heart. But tell me, Shaft, why is it you've forced me to leave our mission for the day?"

"They didn't kill him." He wheezed, lungs still burning.

"What? That's such an anticlimactic end to this investigation. In fact, yes, it's made me so _upset_ now! I can hardly stand it." Graham cried. "Explain to me now how it is this can be so, Shaft. How it can be we've come to this end."

"First of all, Boss, their reaction to my question looked natural enough. I don't think they know anything about Roy Maddock's death. More importantly, though, he must have been deep in debt with him, if he resorted to working for them to help pay it off. You don't off someone who owes you cash like that. Can't collect from a dead man. We'll have to pick up on another investigative route tomorrow." Shaft said.

"Astounding. I had no idea you were so astute, Shaft. Does that make me the joker for not having seen what was so clear right before my eyes?"

"You say that every time I contribute to an investigation, Boss. Is your memory okay?"

"Rewarding a compliment with insult is in rather poor taste, you know. No, no, I don't want your answer. Let's get home before you manage to dig a deeper hole for yourself. We'll never reach a conclusion for our fight if you continue on this path."

_'A fight? Is that what we're having?' _Shaft thought. It was hard to tell sometimes, since their normal interactions tended to be rather adversarial. It was just a part of their relationship, one that Shaft did not even truly begrudge, for all his complaints. But Graham was right, there was something different about this one. Something more bitter, more insidious. He just didn't know what it was, and Shaft felt too tired to figure it out in its entirety at the moment.

All he knew was that, instead of correcting Graham's claim that they were fighting, he kept his mouth shut and drove forward.

* * *

Inside the factory, Tim pulled aside the second-in-command of his auto ring, a woman by the name of Adelle. Though his companion looked at him with sheepish eyes, he knew she'd detected the same discrepancies he had.

"So, um, what do you think?" She said.

"You heard them. They heard about us from _Christopher_? That guy hasn't been in contact with us in months now. And he left on bad terms, at that. So why would he recommend us to some pair of mechanics?" Tim asked, a steep frown cutting his face.

"Err, I guess he probably wouldn't? Because they were, um, at least I think, lying?" Adelle answered, flinching at her superior's frustrated voice.

"Of course they were lying. Right to my face." He snarled. When Adelle shirked back again at the uncharacteristic temper in the leader's words, Tim caught a hold of himself. He placed a hand on the woman's shoulder.

"All I mean is, someone is playing with us. I don't know if it's Christopher, but I wouldn't put it past that rogue guy. Maybe it's just those two, or the cops, or maybe even Maddock. All I know is I'm not going to be responsible for his mess."

"So, umm, that is, what do you think we should, err, do?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? We put in a call to the big guy, explain the situation. Let him take care of it."

"I think that's, uh, a g-great plan, if I can say that. Hey, do you think he might, umm, let me handle it?"

"I don't know, Adelle. All I can say is that, one way or another, whoever's responsible for this is going to pay. And so are those two. That's guaranteed."

* * *

A/N: The chapter in which I remember how much I like (Spoiler here, maybe?) Tim/Tock Jefferson. And a longer chapter, making up for last week's I guess. Next chapter will probably be lengthy too. Also I'm sorry for killing Roy Maddock. Well, thanks for reading!


	9. The Two Cases Unexpectedly Clash

By the time he arrived at the temporary apartment of his old friend, at around seven o'clock at night, Firo Prochainezo had only been out of work thirty minutes. Maiza had told him to take off earlier, when the pair usually split for home, but Firo was determined to work more of the case before the day ended. Hearing this, Maiza made a comment about his admirable work ethic, but the truth was, Firo just couldn't stand being bested. And since he spent all day trying to locate his first suspect - Dallas Genoard - to no avail, he had to assume the lawyer was playing some kind of game with him. One Dallas was, apparently, winning for now.

The lawyer's office said he was 'unavailable' until further notice. His few remaining family members either didn't pick up the phone or claimed to have cut ties with him. Firo would have marched right over to the man's house, if not for the fact that Dallas _had _no permanent residence, and hadn't since a bad debt cost him an apartment a few months back. So if the lawyer was giving Firo the runaround, it meant a ton of work for the detective to wrangle him over to the station.

In the end, Firo's entire day felt as if it had gone to waste. The tip from Rachel back at the start had ended up being the highlight of his investigation so far. The guys at the crime scene lab said no results would be in for another day or two at least, and neither he nor Maiza found any viable witnesses yet. Though Firo remained certain as ever that he'd close up the case, and prove his worth at the same time, the whole process just frustrated him.

Pressed for time, he'd picked up Italian food for dinner at some local place Luck recommended to him a couple week ago. Firo didn't know if it was any good or not, but he figured since Claire had made the unorthodox request, the man wasn't in a position to be picky.

Shifting the brown paper bag, heavy from the various entrees, to one arm, he knocked a couple times on the door. Firo was glad to be able to see his old friend again - he and Claire grew up in the same building as children. Ever since Claire ran off from home, though, Firo counted himself lucky if he managed to meet up with the flighty investigator even just once a year. This bothered him for the first couple years, but over time, he realized one city could never hold the overwhelming energy of Claire anyway. So he accepted it, and looked forward to the occasions they could see each other, which often arrived out of the blue and when he least expected it.

After a few seconds, Claire threw open the door to greet his visitor, grin spreading wide across his face. He, too, became excited when he could see Firo again, though to a lesser extent. As far as Claire was concerned, he had all the time in the world to see his old friends, and he could do so whenever the fancy struck him.

"Firo! Looking sharp." He greeted, appraising the suited detective. "But hey, I didn't know they were letting kids on the force now."

Though the jab at his youthful appearance would have earned anyone else a sharp rebuke at best, Firo just laughed.

"Same as ever, ain't you, Claire?" He said.

Claire reached forward and snatched the bag of food from Firo's hands, already starting towards the kitchen. Firo took it as his cue to come in, and he trailed behind, looking around the place. Sparsely decorated, the couple clearly did not plan to spend much time there. He wondered what it must be like, keeping so little in their possession, compared to the nest he'd built with Ennis back at home.

As if reading his mind, Claire glanced back and said, "Hey, why didn't you bring that Ennis girl over here with you? I want to see this woman. Must be something if she has you too intimidated to make a move, huh?"

Glancing down, Firo thought about his roommate. Truth was, he'd wanted to invite her over for the night, and he'd even called to see what her plans were, but she said she was tied up with work. He couldn't decide whether this relieved him - Claire had no room to talk about being intimidating, really - or disappointed him, since he wanted to have her involved in his family. She practically _was _family to him.

"Hey now, I'm not _intimidated_. The time's just not right is all." Firo said, impulsively defending himself even though he knew it wouldn't get through to Claire. The man never let up until _he _got tired of the teasing.

"The time is always right, if you make it that way. Hey, maybe you can bring her here, and I'll ask her out for you. How's that sound to you?" Claire said, in that voice that always confused Firo as to whether or not he was serious. Still, the notion horrified him enough to take it seriously, whatever the case might be.

"Cut me a break, Claire. First time I see you all year, and the first thing you do is bother me about my love life?"

"Oh, I get it. You're too scared she'll reject you, that it?"

"No, it's not that at all. I just don't want to right now." Firo said, though he wondered how true his answer was. After all, the biggest reason he didn't want to confess to Ennis was because he was afraid _she _didn't want it.

"You sure you're a man, Firo? I mean, you've lived with her for how long, and you haven't even made a move or - hey, hey Chane, I'm only joking."

Claire cut himself off at the sight of his girlfriend standing in the kitchen, glaring daggers at him. Though she had not spoken, both men understood she had not appreciated Claire's harassment of their guest. Though she knew Claire exchanged the banter in good nature, she also knew he tended to take it way too far. At the hint of relief on Firo's expression, Chane figured he felt the same.

Though he'd met her on a couple occasions before, Firo still found himself struck at the sight of his friend's partner. It surprised him enough that the impulsive and proposal-happy man actually managed to land a woman period, let alone that Claire hooked himself someone so striking. Even just standing there, Chane emitted an ethereal beauty, with her pale skin that glowed against her black dress, and those hard, golden eyes that made him certain she could cut down anyone who crossed her.

_'And Claire has the nerve to say _Ennis _is intimidating?' _Firo mused.

Plopping the bag of Italian cuisine down on the counter, Claire spun to face Chane. Already, he'd shaken off her chastisement. It only took him a second to switch topics, and his focus shifted to the case they'd spent the day working on.

"Say, where are those papers at?" He asked.

_'The bank ones? I put them in the living area.'_

"Oh, I'll go grab them then."

'_Is it not early for that?'_

"What? No, any time is perfectly fine. I'll just be back in a sec."

Watching the two converse gave Firo a strange sense of displacement. The second the two locked eyes, it was as if a gate raised that sealed them off into their own world together, where communication came silently and intuitively and no one else could understand it. When they spoke, he felt like a stranger peeking into a window, into a house that had to right to look inside. Still, as strange as the whole experience made him feel, he could not shake the trace of envy it instilled. Would he ever have that kind of connection with Ennis?

Before he had time to contemplate the question, Claire turned on his heel and hurried out of the room. Firo raised an eyebrow, wondering what had him in such a tizzy. Then, he shrugged it off as another one of Claire's frequent whims, and looked over towards Chane.

Though being around the both of them gave him discomfort, it was nothing compared to being with just Chane. After all, unlike Claire, he did not speak her silent language, so making conversation often proved tricky. Still, determined to get on the good side of his friend's loved one, he gave it a try anyway.

"So, how you liking being back in New York?" He asked, vaguely recalling that she was from the city.

Automatically, Chane reached to her hips, only to remember she put on a dress for dinner that day, and her notepad was nowhere to be found. She kept paper on her whenever she and Claire went into public, just in case, but around the places they stayed, she almost never needed it. Unable to communicate her answer, she shrugged.

"Oh. Well, alright then." Firo said. Well, that plan had failed, he decided, and it put him off from taking another shot at it.

Fortunately, it was less than a minute before Claire reappeared in the room, a couple papers in his hands.

"Hey Firo, you think you can run a bank account for us? Figure you got better resources than us when it comes to that." He said.

"Sure, pal." Firo said, reaching for the papers. "But what's it for?"

Claire handed them over. "The case we're on while in the city."

"Oh yeah, that's right - what are you here for anyway?"

"Some lawyer up and disappeared. Guess someone actually wants him back. Can't figure out why, though. You ask me, he's better off gone."

Firo started to nod when the full weight of the words hit him, and he froze.

_'A lawyer. Missing.'_

The case he'd spent all day on flashed before his eyes, all the dead-end avenues that'd had him staying late at the precinct. Sure enough, when he looked at the name printed across the top of the records, it spelled out the same name: Dallas Genoard.

Firo didn't take his eyes off the paper as he asked, "When did you get this case, exactly?"

"In Boston."

At the answer, Firo sighed. "_When _in Boston?"

"Well, right before we left, obviously. Really now, Firo."

Firo glanced up to Chane for assistance, but she just stared at him with a steady gaze. She, at least, had caught onto the fact that Firo knew _something_ about their investigation.

"Okay, okay, in Boston. Fine. Who hired you?"

"Some girl, I think. Went through a broker, so we don't have details." Claire said with a shrug. "Why are you so interested in this?"

Should he disclose information about the case he had back at work? Firo debated the ethical implications of breaking protocol for his friend. Technically, because of the charged nature of the case, only select information was allowed out to the media, handpicked and delivered by the resident publicist. However, Claire clearly had information that would help his investigation. And Firo trusted his friend, and he hated keeping stuff from him.

In the end, his friendship won out. "He's connected to a case I'm working on. And get this - I'm _primary _on it." He said, smiling at the word.

Despite the pride in Firo's voice, though, Claire didn't even bat an eye.

"Yeah? What kind of case?" He asked.

"Homicide. Some assassin, you might've heard of him."

Much as he tried to turn a blind eye, Firo couldn't pretend not to know about Claire's more violent predilections. In fact, a couple times, he'd directed the police away from a particularly badly-ended "case" of Claire's around the city. With great reluctance. The drug case from a few months ago - in the prior year- stuck out in his mind. Firo spent ages trying to keep the department from focusing on the resulting deaths, and Claire hadn't so much as stopped by to say hi, let alone thank him for the effort. However, Firo knew he had no right to complain; Luck had spent much more time, and a lot more energy, keeping a smooth cover for his less-than-savory familial connection. God help the Gandor if the press ever caught wind of the whole affair.

"Maybe," Claire said, nonchalant, "what's the name?"

"Raz Smith? Just went by Smith though, usually."

Claire tapped a finger to his cheek as he searched the banks of his memory. The name rang a bell, but he couldn't quite place it. After failing to dig up the source of the recognition, he shrugged.

"Don't think so. I'll let you know if I remember anything." He said. "Hey, guess we can help each other out on this now? Want me to just take over for you, Firo?"

"What? No, this is the department's case. I can't just outsource it. And I've got this under control."

"You sure? Media won't believe a baby face like yours solved it anyway."

Firo shook of his friend's comments and tried to remember whether or not Maiza mentioned having plans that night. Far as he knew, his partner lived alone, and he hadn't dated once since they'd paired up. Plus, Maiza's hobbies ran tame, so staying out late wasn't typical for him.

"I'm going to call my partner, see if he can run the numbers. Wait here." Firo said, digging out his phone as he headed back towards the entrance. Best to keep the call private.

The minute he disappeared, Claire spread his arms out, turning to beam at Chane. Seeing that familiar expression, she nodded, already knowing what he was about to say.

"It really is my world, isn't it, Chane? Look at that - I ask for a lead on our case, one shows up right at our door. As if I willed it. I feel as if I can have anything I want to happen, right this second, if I just think it." He said. Then, his eyes widened. "Hey, Chane, you want to - "

"_I said no. Not yet. You should not push your good fortune tonight.'_

Not even slightly put off, he nodded. "You're so wise, Chane. But still, you've got to know it's not fortune at work. It's willpower."

And he thought to himself, _'I just have to will this proposal stronger, is all. My world just isn't ready yet. No reason to worry.' _

When Firo came back in, they exchanged a few more vague details on their cases, before deciding to sit down to dinner before the food became too cold to enjoy. Firo said Maiza would have the results for them in a couple hours, so they ought to enjoy the night while they waited.

And though dinner conversation grew awkward at times, what with Chane's difficulty communicating with anyone but Claire, and Claire's own nonsensical utterances, the company was enjoyable anyway. It didn't take long for Chane to get into the habit of actually writing down her comments, which Firo appreciated. The detective told a few stories of the more interesting cases he'd landed, but as always, Claire managed to dominate the conversation with his own wild escapades. And though Chane knew all of them intimately, she listened without impatience, as if each time he spun the story it was brand new all over again.

* * *

Not long after they finished eating, Firo received a call back from his partner. He excused himself to the other room and answered it, greeting the man on the other end.

"You got the results, Maiza? That was fast."

"Yes, well, the individual behind the false company didn't take much precaution when masking his identity. Rather odd, if I do say so myself. I do hope you are being careful with this case."

"Oh come on, Maiza. You know I can handle myself just fine. No one's going to pull one over on this detective. I'll have it sewed up shut before you know it."

"So I understood when I gave you primary. Still. This account you gave me is strange, Firo."

"Yeah? You said it was an individual behind it. That's kind of weird, isn't it?"

"Not as much as you'd expect. Fake corporate accounts are a useful way for moving around and hiding money, so criminals tend to use them often."

"I don't get it, Maiza. What makes this odd then? Keep it simple for me, alright?"

"Well, it doesn't belong to a criminal."

"Of course not. He hasn't been _caught_ yet. He'll be a criminal after this comes to light, if I have anything to do with it. I'll promise you that."

"How involved _are _you with this, Firo? You said this was for a friend, correct?"

"Yeah, a private investigator. But it relates to my case. I told you all this. Is there something wrong, that you can't give me the name of the person behind the account, Maiza? I'll find it out one way or another, you know."

"I do know. Well, I guess I can't interfere in this. You've become a fine detective, Firo, and I have great expectations for you. And a great deal of trust. So I'm going to leave this one to your own judgment."

"Don't sound so ominous, Maiza. What's the name?"

And so Maiza disclosed the identity behind the mysterious pay-offs, and as soon as he heard the name, Firo felt cold as ice. His heart plummeted, and though he thanked Maiza, he wished he hadn't heard the information he'd just received. It took a couple minutes of intense internal debate, and the gathering of his nerves, before he could return to the friends who'd invited him over, the couple he'd just shared an enjoyable evening with.

As soon as he entered the kitchen, Claire's enthusiastic gaze trapped him.

"So? You got the name? I'm ready to get this investigation closed, so I can move on with the more exciting parts of my world." Claire said.

Firo looked down. "I got the name."

"Well? What is it?"

Try as he might, Firo couldn't help it. His eyes lifted to settle on Chane.

Looking straight at her, he said, "It's a judge. Here in New York City."

The temperature in the room dropped, freezing the blood in all their veins. No one dared move for that second, as if speaking would somehow shatter the ice and make the situation real.

But Firo knew he'd have to eventually. So he finished his announcement.

"It belongs to Huey Laforet."

Claire reacted first, his expression shutting down, sealing off the excitement that had lit him up just a minute earlier. He walked over to his partner and placed a strong hand on her shoulder, knowing he'd have to keep a firm hold on her to keep the situation from unraveling.

"We can't help you any further, Firo. I'm sorry. I'm sure you understand."

Chane stared at the ground, unable to comprehend the news she'd just been given. Her father told her to keep away from his dealings for a while, ever since the terrorist fiasco went down. Understanding she'd resume her role eventually, she'd obeyed without protest. So the information, the implication that her father could soon be in trouble, came out of nowhere and struck her like a slap in the face. The only sign she gave of her tumultuous emotions was the slight narrowing of her eyes, the tension that stiffened her fingers. But to Claire, she might as well have been in tears.

Firo watched the way his old friend moved in relation to Chane without noticing it, the way he brightened just being in her presence. The way he automatically understood what she needed, what to give her. He thought of Ennis, and to his relief, he realized he could never hold a grudge against Claire for making that decision. He'd have made the same judgment, had the situation been reversed. It was what you did for the one you loved - wrapped them up in a blanket weaved from your strength and confidence, so tight they never even realize it has left you naked and exposed to the very dangers from which you're shielding them.

Firo nodded. "I understand. I'll leave now."

"I'm not going to interfere with your investigation. You don't have to worry about this coming between us either, alright? Everything will work out for us in the end. It always does, remember?" Claire said.

Well, Claire had enough of both strength and confidence to go around and still have plenty left over, it seemed. Though he didn't buy into Claire's self-centric philosophy, the certainty of the man was contagious. Firo managed a smile.

"Sure. I remember. Good luck with your case."

"Yeah. You too." Claire said, and they all wondered whether how much he meant that.

And so Firo headed out, leaving the couple to process the new development in the case, in their lives. Claire had studiously avoided the topic of her father, after accidentally crossing the line and offending her a few too many times. He didn't actually know how they'd get out of the mess that appeared on the horizon for them both, but he didn't want Chane to know that. So held her tight and he gave her his platitudes, his word that he'd make sure her father stayed safe, that everything would work out. And though he couldn't yet see the path there, he meant every word.

* * *

"Dammit." Firo muttered as he headed home.

He should have been more careful. After all, he'd _known _who the judge on the Smith trial was, and he'd planned on speaking with the man eventually. He just hadn't made the inevitable connection until actually face to face with the Laforet's daughter. Firo had just been so focused on Dallas, so _certain_ that the lawyer laid at the source of the homicide somehow, that he hadn't paid enough attention to the judicial aspect. Stupid of him. Careless.

But he'd fix it. Firo knew he was ready for primary, and so he'd have to work out the case without second-guessing himself. And though it had cost him, the revelation gave him a new lead on the matter.

What could the payments mean? A number of implications stood out in his mind. Bribery, for one. But _Dallas _had been the one in need of a public win, so that didn't seem likely. Blackmail? Perhaps. Or an exchange of sorts, and they just hadn't uncovered the other parts.

Whatever it was, Firo wasn't going to figure it out by wasting time and stressing himself out over his friends' involvement in the matter. He remembered what Maiza said about this being up to him now, and he knew what he had to do next. Only once that was done, would he be able to proceed with the case he now _needed_ to figure out - if not for his sake, then for Claire and Chane's.

When morning came, he'd have to go and meet personally with Huey Laforet.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading!


	10. Time Ticks On For the DA

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick. Tock_

The passage of time slipped through the fingers of those who did not have the power to grasp hold of the formless being that was life. Minutes tumbled into each other, hours draining into hours, days and weeks blending and colluding into one giant, conglomerate knot. And when you reached out your hand to untangle it, to disassemble the secrets trapped in its twine, it snaked around your wrist and pulled you in. Once it bound you, was there any hope of escape? For a return to a freer time?

These were the thoughts on Luck Gandor's mind as he listened to the clock in his office wind down the evening, a constant reminder that he had nothing to return to at home. Since he had little better to do, Luck stayed late at the office, completing paperwork that could have waited until tomorrow. Most of the staff left for the day, save for a couple interns looking to polish their resume recommendations with their dedication. One by one, the lights in the building flickered off, so that the only light came from the small lamp in the room, forcing Luck to strain his eyes.

He worked every day of the week. It was expected for someone in a high-ranking position such as his, and so he lived up to it. Besides, he needed all the time he could get, in order to make sure his work was absolutely perfect. Since legal work was at times difficult for him, he assumed it took him longer to complete it than others in his position. He'd never know for sure, however; he had to pretend it all came effortlessly, since showing any sign of weakness constituted a political death sentence.

His eyelids drooped, and he leaned back in his chair. He'd been in since early that morning, and the hours started weighing on him a few hours back. But while the idea of sleep appealed to him, the reality of it proved elusive. For a while now, he'd been unable to settle into slumber. He'd reach the pivotal point, about to swing into the realm of the unconscious, when something caught hold and pulled him right on back. Tonight, he planned to curl up with a collection of Poe's stories, which helped him sleep. Maybe they would help stave off the worries that kept him tethered to the waking life.

_Tick tock. Tick tock._

As for the whole ordeal with Eve Genoard - he'd spent a portion of the day going through his associates in that precinct. Since he held great distaste for the Commander of the Russo's precinct, he had slim pickings regarding people he was on good terms with there. Still, he'd placed a few calls, but none yielded information of any use. He had a couple meetings set up (under other pretenses) over the next few days, but that was all he was willing to do about the issue. If nothing pertinent came up, he'd nix the whole business and give Eve his apologies.

Luck closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his temple. Fortunately, he worked well under pressure and while exhausted, so no one even noticed his demeanor shift. The familiar clutch of sleep wrapped itself around him, and a series of images flashed before his mind. Pictures of a crime scene, blood seeping into the beige fabric of the living room couch. The victim on the stand, a woman with bandages around her arm and circles beneath her eyes and who flinched every time he stepped towards her with a question. The jury's eyes looking at him, judging him, and in the end, finding him as unworthy as he felt. The perpetrator's handcuffs snapping off, the smirk he shot the sobbing victim. All images fresh, since it'd only been day ago he'd lived them.

_Ring-ring. Ring-ring._

Snapping Luck from his reminiscing, and his doomed attempt at napping, the phone on his desk rang. Eager for a distraction, he snatched the receiver on the second ring and brought it to his ear.

"Hello? This is the District Attorney's office, Luck Gandor speaking."

"Hey, Luck? How's it going? It's me, Firo."

The familiar voice managed to steal a smile from the attorney. Although he didn't see Firo as much as he'd have liked, each occasion brought him a small joy. After all, he'd known Firo almost his whole life.

"Hello there, Firo. I'm well, the usual. Is there something I can help you with?"

Luck wondered why the detective was calling him so late. Strange, but then, he figured Firo knew him well enough to guess that Luck would be in at that hour.

"Maybe. It's kind of a long story, though. You got time?"

_Tick tock._

"Yeah. I've got time."

* * *

By the time Luck hung up the phone, his hand was trembling. Though his visage, that cool and smooth mask, remained utterly calm and collected, he could not control the slight quiver of his fingers. The news Firo delivered eliminated any possibility of extra sleep that night.

So Firo took on the Raz Smith case. Luck should have known it would end up this way. He did not, however, know whether this would prove fortunate or unfortunate for the young detective. The Smith case was a particular sticking point for Luck, since it ended up as a very public, very personal failure. The man had killed too many people to walk free. It had been Luck's job to make sure it didn't happen. And yet.

_'I glad he's dead. I'm glad.'_ Though the thought was bitter and ugly, he forced himself to swallow it and accept it as truth.

More surprising than the news of Smith's homicide, however, had been Firo's other revelations. Thinking about all the information he'd just gotten, Luck didn't even know where to start.

The fact that Dallas Genoard went missing had hit him hard. Normally, he'd count his blessings if someone told him this, and hope never to see that scumbag again. In fact, he'd said as much to Firo, and let on that Dallas went "missing" every couple of years, only to be found in some ditch or alleyway, roughed up by someone he'd messed with. If not for the event that morning with Eve Genoard, Luck would have written it off as just that. But now, he was irritated. Someone was playing games with him, and Luck was not a man who tolerated such foolery.

Because of the earlier meeting with Eve, the news about Dallas managed to overshadow that about Huey Laforet, but that little issue still bothered him. He knew Judge Laforet, of course, as he'd tried several cases in the man's courtroom. Huey was an impartial judge, coldly so, who never showed any sign of bias or emotional involvement. While these traits were always desired in courtroom judges, Huey was different. There was an edge to him, and he often acted out of his own sense of logic and agenda rather than actually hearing out the lawyers in his court. Sometimes, he'd make a call that came completely out of left field and made no rational sense, and Luck suspected Huey did it out of a bored desire to observe the lawyers frantically trying to rework their cases. Like they were test subjects.

Just the thought sent a chill down Luck's spine. No, he possessed no fondness for Mr. Laforet. He urged Firo to turn it over to someone else, maybe internal affairs, but Firo remained adamant about pursuing it himself. Luck could not help but see danger in Firo's future, and this unnerved him. But Firo wasn't the type easily dissuaded trouble, and so there was nothing more Luck could do about it.

On the other hand, he _could _do something about the Dallas issue. And despite the late hour, he fully intended to. If Miss Genoard was willing to waste his time all day on the matter, then he'd feel no remorse for stealing some of her night.

Suppressing his innate unwillingness to inconvenience the young girl, he picked up his phone and dialed her number, determined to get to the bottom of the whole charade.

* * *

Half an hour later, the attorney and the psychology student sat across from one another in a small 24-hour diner a few blocks away from Luck's office. The overhead lights flickered, casting fleeting shadows across each of their faces. From the corner, the chattering of the late-night wait staff mixed with the clattering of dishes being washed and rearranged, a low cacophony that comforted Luck. He rubbed a thumb against the illegible initials scratched into the table. He'd wanted anonymity, somewhere no one would recognize either of them. And somewhere convenient, cheap. This place suited the bill perfectly.

While Luck felt right at home at the forgettable diner, however, Eve fidgeted in her seat, hand jerking away when she accidentally laid it atop a small spill of sticky soda. She grimaced, but they both knew she was in no position to complain about the location.

Luck had not divulged to Eve exactly what he'd found out earlier, and he'd only told her that it was important he speak to her as soon as possible. To his relief, _she_ had been the one to suggest they meet that night. Luck had simply picked the meeting place.

Eve was the first to speak. She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. "So do you have any new information? Did you find out anything?"

Luck held up a hand to halt her. Then, he signaled a waitress over and placed an order for a cup of coffee. When he looked at Eve, she only shook her head, and the waitress departed.

Once he'd ensured they'd have at least a few minutes without interruption from a server, Luck decided to get the conversation over with. Best to lead with the knowledge he'd just gotten, instead of circling the issue and dragging it out.

"I did indeed find out some new information, Ms. Eve. That information being, of course, that your brother has been reported missing. And that _someone _has hired private investigators to look into it. Now, I am sure that you can see what conclusion I have been forced to draw." He said, lips drawn tight and expression locked down.

The young woman looked down, wringing her hands. Her breath caught at the unexpected accusation. Luck's cold gaze cut into her, a verdict all on its own. It knocked her off balance for a second, but she gathered her resolve. She would not let this attorney sentence her without even hearing out her side of the story.

"You're right. My brother Dallas _has_ been missing, and I did put in a call to an investigator to try and find him. But I've already told you, that has nothing to do with what I spoke with you about. Mr. Gandor, you have to believe me - everything I told you was the truth." She said.

"And you don't see why this is a little hard for me to buy? I don't believe in such tidy coincidences. You must understand where I'm coming from."

"And you must understand where _I'm _coming from. If it was someone from your family, wouldn't you want to do the same?"

_'Your family.' _At the words, Luck's steel resolve weakened. He'd initially planned on cutting it off right there, telling her he didn't want to be involved any longer. But when it came down to it, in this regard, was he really that much different from her? Sure, at least his relatives weren't _scumbags, _but even if they were, even if one of them did something utterly _unforgivable_ - Luck ran his finger over the etching once more. He didn't want to finish that thought.

Instead, he said, "What's the connection? Between the so-called corruption you suspect and what happened to your brother."

Before she could answer, the waitress came back and placed the hot cup of coffee down in front of the Gandor. He took it and raised it to his lips, not so much as wincing as it burned his tongue. He kept his eyes on Eve as the waitress departed, trying to analyze her reaction to the confrontation.

Eve's shoulders relaxed a bit, the color returning to her cheeks. Regardless of her determination to pursue the matter and defend herself, on some level, she still feared that the district attorney would rebuke her for what she hid. Or worse, contact others about the matter and close off any possibility of investigating for good. She decided to choose her words carefully.

"Everything I told you _was _true. Every part of it. The only thing is, well -I did have another reason for reporting it. One that has to do with my brother's disappearance."

"Well, Miss Eve, that is rather obvious. I'd advise you to disclose _everything _right now, because I will invariably find out if you are hiding anything else. You can believe that."

"Well, it all goes back to the last time I saw him. Our parents, they aren't in the picture anymore, you see. But I stay at our old home in the city, sometimes. I went there one evening, and he must have let himself in with an old key. He was - Dallas was intoxicated. Again." Her fingers curled tight, eyes cast down.

Luck kept himself perfectly still. The only indicator of his emotion was the unconcealed flash of light that ran across his eyes. He sincerely hoped that Claire never managed to find the girl's brother. Because he feared he'd strangle the man himself if he ever had to cross paths with him again.

Eve continued, "I didn't understand a lot of the things he was saying. He can be hard to understand when he's worked up. But don't get me wrong - he's really a very good person at heart, Mr. Gandor."

_'Of course he is. They all are. All the bastards and thieves we put on trial. Did your defense attorney brother teach you that one?' _Now it was Luck whose fingers clenched, his fingernail digging into the surface of the table, leaving his own little mark.

"All I know is he kept mentioning the Russo precinct. And how he was going to get back at one of them or something. He kept mentioning one name in particular. A Detective Ladd Russo. Do you know of him?"

Luck nodded. Of course he'd heard of Ladd Russo. _Everyone _in the department knew who Ladd Russo was. The deranged nephew of the precinct commander, the son of a distinguished officer. Those in the field traded rumors about the detective, most of which pertained to the shaky mental health of the man. How Placido Russo managed to keep him out of trouble was beyond Luck's knowledge. But with the information about the disappearing psychological profiles, he was able to put together some logical guesses. Yes, it was all coming together.

"Well, he talked about this Ladd Russo for a while. But right before he left, he changed the subject, and he said - he promised he'd come visit me in a couple days to talk about how my studies are going. I haven't heard from him since. And that brings us to where we are now." She concluded.

"And has it occurred to you that perhaps your brother just got himself into his usual trouble, Miss Eve? You must excuse me for saying so, but it would not be the first time his _predilections _have pulled him from the public eye." Luck suggested. "And perhaps he was lying to you about visiting again. It seems a given, all things considered."

Eve met his eyes straight on now, and Luck was surprised to find that when he looked into them, he could not feel pity. Despite all she'd spoken of, there was no despair or betrayal hidden in her gaze. Instead, all Luck could feel was the sheer weight of her faith, of her hope.

"Do you know why I study psychology, Mr. Gandor?" She asked.

Not understanding the relevance of the matter, Luck shook his head. He'd taken a couple semesters of psychology classes back when studying at university, and he found them dreadful. As much as he loved psychology in his literature, he found the actual study rather dry and presumptuous.

"I thought, when I first started, that it would help me better understand my brother, and why he is the way he is. But not just that - I thought it could also give me a way to fix the unhappiness that affected _everyone _in my family. I was just tired of sitting to the side and watching everyone I loved be torn apart. So, I took a more active role in figuring out what to do."

"Have you considered that maybe your brother is simply a lost cause, Miss Eve?"

"But that's just it, Mr. Gandor. When it comes to family, there is no such thing as a lost cause."

Luck did not know why he should think of his own family at that moment, but he could not prevent himself from picturing their faces. He thought of the sole reason he'd gone into law, despite his lack of passion for the subject: because it would assist his family. Because his family _expected _it. And he thought of Claire, and how Luck had been able to use his power to keep him from condemnation at the hands of the law. Could he pass judgment on this young woman, wasting her time on a wayward loved one, when he was himself guilty of the same sins?

"What would you do, Mr. Gandor, to protect the ones you love?"

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

He made the decision before his better sense of rationality could step in. "Alright. I still have my doubts about what's going on here, and I still think you're brother is nothing but trash. However, that aside, I'll continue to look into this for you. But I expect you to keep me fully aware of the situation from now on. Do you understand?"

At the unexpected agreement, Eve could not refrain from smiling. She'd fully expected this to be the end of the road for her investigation, and Luck's reactions had planted in her the seeds of fear that her indiscretion would end up reported to the Russo precinct. For all she knew, Luck could very well be planning on doing that. But for now, he'd given her his word, and when she looked at him, she saw a man that she thought she could trust. And that's all that mattered.

"I understand."

Luck nodded. "Good. Now, it's late, and a young woman like you ought to be getting home. Do you need escorting back to your place?"

"No. I have a ride waiting for me. But thank you, Mr. Gandor."

"I'll contact you if anything else comes up. I hope our next meeting will be due to better circumstances, Miss Eve."

"As do I. Thank you."

And so Eve gathered her things and departed, leaving Luck to finish his cup of coffee. As the bitter liquid scorched his mouth, he contemplated what he'd learned from their meeting.

Ladd Russo. Luck always figured he'd hear about the detective getting tangled up in something illicit, if not downright nefarious. He just didn't think _he'd _be the one spearheading the effort to uncover it. Though, of course, he was wondering if even that was true. How many other parties were tied up in this? Firo, Claire, and Chane, to name three. Already concerned about Firo involving himself with Judge Laforet, Luck did not like the thought that the detective could end up dealing with Ladd Russo too. At least Claire could be absolutely trusted to handle himself, if the situation became dire. Luck would just have to hope that the mess straightened itself up as quickly as possible.

What would he do if one of his closest friends got hurt? If this web of corruption caught and choked one of them?

_Tick tock. Tick tock._

Irritated, Luck looked around for the clock that's ticking seemed to pound at his head. But after studying all the walls of the diner, he realized he was mistaken. There was no clock, not anywhere in the place.

Luck threw a few bills down on the table and stood up. Clearly, he needed to get some rest. Tomorrow, he'd start placing calls in and working on the matter. But for tonight, he'd allow himself at least a little bit of calm, before the inevitable storm.

* * *

A/N: Hooray for ten chapters! Thank you to all my readers, especially my reviewers - you guys are really the best. I mean it. Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	11. The Officers Pay a Late Night Visit

Darkness coated the city, the streets barren save for the few homeless citizens who made their bed along the sidewalk and on filthy benches. Even the noise from the bars was dying down, as the last of the drinkers filtered out and slunk on home. A cold wind whipped through the lines of city buildings, sweeping tattered newspapers and abandoned food wrappers across the ground. The shapes flitted in and out of the sparse areas of illumination designated by the few streetlights, each placed a spacious distance away from each other. Even if others called it the "city that never sleeps," certain areas of New York City did take brief naps at the very least.

Walking along the empty street, oblivious to the hour, two police officers chatted away to one another, striving for a destination that required them to walk a few blocks to reach.

"Finally, _finally _we get to have some fun, amigo. We get a case, an interesting case, at last, and they have us do paperwork for hours and hours and hours. I'm _tired _of it, amigo." Maria said, though her voice sounded not even the least bit weary.

"Mm, well, sometimes you have to pay a _price _to have your fun. And now that we've paid, we don't have to _worry _about it anymore. That's good, isn't it?" Tick said, his scissors snipping through the cold air. Since no one was around, he didn't have to worry about someone complaining about his habit, so he freely played with his favorite weapon.

After they landed the case not too long ago, Maria had wanted to bolt straight off to visit the head lawyer of the burnt office, determined to start their investigation with a bang. However, with great hesitation, Tick had to remind her that the department required them to stop back at the precinct first and file paperwork on the initial visit. For most officers, that standard step took no time at all, but Maria was different. She rushed through filling out the forms, hurrying and jotting down near-incomprehensible answers. Since everyone in the precinct knew her well, she was required to run all her paperwork through their police sergeant, Mr. Nico, before submitting it. Upon seeing her sloppy work, he forced her to rework it many times before allowing her and Tick out to continue their investigation.

Tick thought about offering to do the paperwork himself, in order to get them out sooner. In fact, Mr. Nico had practically ordered him to do so, but he ended up keeping quiet. Even when it frustrated her, Maria liked to be in charge. And that made Tick like it, because when she kept trying again and again instead of quitting, he could actually _see _her passion for the job.

"_Better_ not have to worry about it anymore, that's all I'm saying, amigo."

With a nod, Tick accepted this answer. "Hey, Maria? I've been thinking, and, I wonder_, _should we really be doing this so _late_?"

Their first step of the investigation, the duo decided, would be to visit the head lawyer and find out about the daily schedule of the firm. That way, they could have a better idea of what kind of crime they were dealing with. Maria, especially, entertained fantasies of finding herself involved in a deep, conspiratorial web, disguised as a simple crime. At last, something that would actually make use of her skills.

"No, no, don't be worrying like that, amigo. We're the police, right? So we get to drop by and ask questions whenever we want, amigo. Just show them the badge and they let us in real quick, have to talk then." Maria said, beaming.

"Hmm, if you say so, Maria." Tick said. Best to just let her lead the way, unless she headed off on a completely inappropriate direction. Besides, she had a point.

After they rounded a corner, Maria looked up and down the row of affluent apartment homes, trying to pick out the one to which they needed to go. They'd grabbed the information on the firm's employment earlier that day, and she and Tick looked up all the workers' addresses. Fortunately, the one they'd needed was located not too far from the building the officers worked out of. Otherwise, they'd have to put off the investigation another whole day, setting them that much further behind the perpetrator.

"Say, which house is it we're going to again, amigo?"

_Snip-snip-snip_

"Umm, _that _one, I think." Tick said, pointing his scissors towards a polished, newly-renovated apartment complex on the street. "Apartment number _143_."

"Well let's hurry then, amigo." Maria said, with a burst of sudden energy.

She grabbed Tick's hand with hers and sprinted off towards the building he'd pointed at, her feet pounding against the sidewalk, footsteps echoing throughout the street. She didn't want to waste any more time dawdling around, ready for some action. Tick struggled to keep up, his face flushing from both the sudden exercise and the hand-holding, but he managed to keep decently in pace.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the door of their target, after having haggled with the security guard. Even after they flashed their badges, the guard hesitated to let them through, squinting at the gleaming pair of scissors still snipping away in Tick's hand. When Tick went to use the weapon to point at the man, though, the guard had let them straight into the building.

As soon as they stood on the lawyer's doorstep, Maria stuck her fist out and rapped away on the door with a series of loud, quick knocks. She did not relent; whenever she visited someone, he always kept knocking until a person answered the door.

On this occasion, it took a good few minutes before the door whipped open, revealing a man with sleep lines on his face who was clad in just a white robe. Tall and light-haired, he appeared rather young, which surprised the two officers. They'd expected someone older to be in charge of the place. Although, the lines of irritation on his face, and his narrowed eyes, did age him quite a bit.

"Do you know what time it is? What could you _possible _need that warrants disturbing me at this hour?" He said.

Though annoyed, the man didn't want to straight up turn them away, since their police badges were in plain view. Whenever the police arrived at his door, it meant trouble, especially at this hour. And that trouble tended to pertain to his old friend, Ladd. So, assuming the worst, he decided to at least find out what was going on. Not to mention, the scissors in the one officer's hand had him too baffled and anxious to risk offending the man.

"The _fire_, amigo. We're investigating a potential crime. Surely that's a perfect reason for dropping in at any possible time, yes? Unless you hate good and justice and the law, amigo." Maria answered, eyes narrowed with accusation at the last sentence.

"Even the police have standards, don't they? Couldn't this wait until morning?" He said with a heaved sigh. It was just a cover, though, for his relief that the visit wasn't going to be nearly as awful it could have been.

"No, no, not at all, amigo, that's no good at all. Trails go cold when you wait too long, you know."

Tick decided to step in. "This won't take up too much time, _sir_. Don't worry."

Though the lawyer resigned himself to the fate, and visibly tried to shut down his annoyance, he still did not offer to let them into his apartment. Maybe if he left them standing, they'd leave faster.

"What are your questions? Shoot." He said.

Maria's eyes widened, not having expected such easy cooperation. Not from someone in the legal field, especially. They usually shut you down right away, citing laws and rights and precedents that neither officer actually understood. This man, though, clearly wasn't being cooperative out of some desire to help the duo. From the quick resignation, and the look of familiar exhaustion on the man's face, she wondered if perhaps he was simply used to such trouble. The idea only made her more suspicious of him.

"You're pretty calm for a man whose place of work just burned down, amigo. Went up in smoke, with all your hard work - poof! Shouldn't you be upset, amigo?"

Folding his arms across his chest, the man shrugged. "That's what fire insurance is for, right? Trust me, I did my worrying right after getting the news. Nothing I can do now but roll with it and try to salvage best I can."

Maria glanced at her partner, who cracked a smile upon making eye contact. He tilted his head forward, showing that he accepted the answer as truth. This was usually Tick's job, but she'd wanted to try this part of the investigation for once. So Tick's opinion held a lot of weight with her. Reassured, she turned back to her questioning.

"Do you have any ideas on who might have done it, amigo? Anything you haven't come forward with? We won't be too mad at you if there is, promise, amigo."

"Wait, what? Why would I know that? I didn't even know it'd been purposely set. Is that what happened?"

"Oh." Maria scrambled to figure out a new line of questioning, having forgotten that the lawyer wouldn't have been notified of that.

"Mm, _sir? _I have a question. Is there ever anyone in the building that late?" Tick said, taking over his usual position. The question had been bugging him all day, anyway, and none of the records had given him the answer.

The man eyed the absently dancing scissors nervously, tensing up every time they snapped shut. He had no idea what the officer's issue was, or why he carried such instruments, but if his goal was to intimidate people into talking, it was doing its job.

"Sometimes. If there's an appointment. But it has to be a special case."

"Could you _check _to see if there was an appointment today?"

"Yeah, sure, just hold on a sec, okay?"

And with that, the man stepped back and shut the door.

Maria turned to face Tick, and despite her trouble during the interview process, she grinned at him. Her excitement illuminated her entire countenance, radiating so bright and warm, it reminded Tick of the sun that'd retreated for the night. Happy for her, he quickened the tempo of his scissors.

"Wow, amigo, see how quick we got that information? Our adventure is speeding up already."

"Yes, it's very _nice_, Maria. Maybe we'll get some good information here."

"But what do you think of this guy, amigo? You read people better than me, better than most people. Do you think he's odd, amigo? Or hiding something?"

"_No_, I don't think that's it. I _think_, he was more annoyed than surprised to see us here. He was expecting something a lot worse. That's why he's so _quick _to cooperate with us."

"You think, amigo? Weird, so weird. But at least it's different and fun and not like the last few people we talked to, amigo." Maria said, looking to the bright side. She had to, when all the jobs their Sergeant assigned them were so dull and routine.

"Mm, I guess. He'll hand over whatever he _has_, most likely. And if not, we can always cut him up for a while. He looks like he'll talk _quickly_."

_Snip-snip!_

Smiling, Tick pictured the man in his mind, automatically singling out the most vulnerable points of the stranger's body. A snip to the nerves lining the left leg, then slice through some tendons on both feet, then start cutting off fingers. Fairly bloody job, but doable with a couple pairs of scissors. Clinically, he imagined the man's screams, tried to deduce just how strong those bonds would prove. Not too strong, Tick thought, not for that guy. And he had a lot of experience in that realm, despite the department's claims that it _never _employed torture.

"Oh, that'd be exciting to watch, amigo. I've been really wanting to watch you cut someone up, see what it's like. Never seen a real life interrogation before. Let's hope he resists, amigo." Maria said.

"Hmm." Was all Tick said, looking vaguely sad despite the smile. No matter how many times he explained it, Maria never quite understood that torture wasn't exactly a happy occasion for him. Not a sad one, or a regrettable one, but he still wouldn't describe it as happy.

The door swung back open, and the man reappeared with a single sheet of paper in his hands. Wordlessly, he handed it to Tick.

"One after-hours appointment, cancelled."

The officer scanned the paper, and when he read the name, it sent a flash of recognition through him. He frowned, trying to figure out where he'd heard it before. When he didn't place it after a minute, he decided he was just too stupid to figure it out, and so he passed it to Maria to check.

"Ricardo Russo? Who's that, amigo?" Maria said, not able to place the name to a particular memory either.

Just the name sent irritation across the man's face. Exhausted at the mere sound of the word _Russo_, the lawyer leaned against his doorframe and sighed. "Teenager, has a wealthy family background. You probably know the guy's relative. Placido Russo? Runs a police precinct?"

Both of the officers' expressions lit up at the reveal. Maria recognized the name at once, having spent a few months in that precinct. It took her no time at all to anger and annoy the higher-ups there, and they'd put her in for immediate transfer. Therefore, she didn't spend enough time under the Russo's command to form any impressions of the man. Or his relatives, some of whom worked there. Tick recognized it as well, but only from various complaints he'd overheard from Mr. Keith and Mr. Luck. Particularly close with the Gandors, they sometimes shared tidbits of professional gossip with him. So he knew there was something off about the Russos, even if he didn't know details.

"What does your firm have to do with Mr. Russo? It's not a _criminal _firm, so why do you know them?" Tick asked.

"_Because_," the man said, "I happen to know the commander's nephew, _Ladd _Russo. Which means I get the pleasure of handling all their legal affairs."

Well, if the man had high connections, it explained why he was so young and yet in charge of a whole office. Tick didn't recognize Ladd's name, but he figured it was a sore spot for the man. So he decided not to press the point. Unless the lawyer became uncooperative, of course, in which case he'd cut open that sore and dig in until he spilled.

"Hmm, so what did this Ricardo Russo want an appointment _for_?"

"Look, I don't know. That's not my business. Why don't you ask him?"

"Sounds great, amigo." Maria said. Whatever the man's strangeness, she found him less and less interesting the more they spoke. This Ricardo person, on the other hand, seemed more likely to yield an exciting turn for their case. Already, she was itching to go off on this new path.

"Thank you for your cooperation. It would have been a _shame _if I'd had to interrogate you." Tick said, snipping the scissors an inch away from the man.

The lawyer jerked back, cringing at the close blades. "Glad to be of help." He muttered.

Maria snatched Tick's hand and started pulling him away from the door, in a hurry to advance their case. She called to the man, "Stay in town, alright, amigo? I hear about you pulling funny business or running away and I'll come and slash you right on up. Understand, amigo?"

"Understood." The lawyer punctuated the answer with the click of the door shutting.

Information gathered, the two headed out of the building, having done all they could for the night. Both understood that they'd have to head to their homes and get some sleep before they could continue the investigation, though Maria only accepted this reluctantly. But still, she considered the trip a success, because it introduced a whole new factor into the case. Namely - a possible target.

"So, amigo. What would you say this is now? Because it looks to me like attempted murder, amigo. Someone's trying to kill this guy."

"_Mm_, I think you're _right_, Maria. Which means - "

"- which means this case is under our jurisdiction! What a happy day this is, amigo."

"I _agree_, Maria. So what do we do next?"

"Well, tomorrow morning, we'll have to go straight to this Ricardo Russo and find out what's what, amigo."

"After reporting to Mr. _Keith, _of course. Since this involves another police _official_, and is probably a sensitive matter."

Maria huffed, but it was only a cursory gesture. She'd listen to Tick's advice, especially when it came to their superiors. He'd known them much longer than she had, and she didn't want to make a mistake that'd get her kicked out of this precinct too. She liked being with Tick, and for once, she didn't want to mess up her assignment to the Gandor's sector.

"Okay, okay, amigo. But after, right? Then we get going?"

Tick smiled, and wanting to reassure her, he slipped his scissors into their holster and took her hand with his.

"After, Maria. _After_, we can do anything you want."

And so, success and the future ahead painting a beautiful image for the partnered officers, they headed down the street, walking until even the streetlights flickered into darkness, walking until they both disappeared into the blanket of night, only the gleaming promise of a silver blade breaking through the black.

* * *

A/N: More fun with Tick and Maria. As always, thank you for reading!


	12. The Private Eyes Push Through

"You sure about this, Chane? We can put off the case a couple of days. Not like he's going to be any more gone if we wait."

_'No. We will not halt our mission for such reasons, Claire.'_

Chane steeled her eyes as she looked at her partner, imparting with her expression her own certainty onto the man, a language she knew he spoke. Though he'd always been the steady one, the unwavering figure, she refused to let that cause her any laxness on her own part. Often overshadowed by the boisterous man, Chane was determined not to let her own strength of will be forgotten.

The news she received the night before, regarding her father, had shaken her for a while. It didn't surprise her that her father was involved in unsavory dealings. She knew he had plans and agendas up his sleeve that she knew little of, ones that fell firmly on the other side of the law. However, she hadn't expected it to tangle into her personal life, forcing her to end the compartmentalization she'd imposed on herself thus far. Not only was her father on the verge of being found out, the parties that would come after him were people she knew. People Claire cared about. By the end of it, people _she _cared about would probably be involved as well. If her loyalties came into question, what would she do? She envied Claire, who'd made that decision so swiftly, without a trace of doubt.

Neither of them had gotten much sleep last night. Chane was busy running through old conversations with her father through her mind, trying to pick out snippets of evidence, little signs that would tell her what he wanted her to do. But there was nothing. They hadn't even spoken in a couple years now, as he'd told her to lay low for a while after the incident that led to her meeting Claire. She had to wonder - did her father not want her protection anymore? Did he not trust her? It didn't matter, on some level, though. Because she'd always protect him anyway.

Claire had stayed awake with her, an easy task since he often kept erratic sleep schedules, based off his whims rather than convention. What hadn't been easy was supporting her. She wouldn't talk to him about her being upset, so he had trouble formulating the words to fix everything. And he was determine to do that, to repair the problem. The most he ended up being able to do, though, was to make her understand that he'd be on her side. And, by extension, Huey's side, if need be. And to remind her that, when he was on someone's side, that person _never _lost. Not on his watch.

When morning came, she'd handed him the address of the last location on their missing person's bank statement. Part of her desire to continue with the case stemmed from an inability to compromise a goal for the sake of personal emotion. The other part came from the knowledge that their case was tied to her father, and so she ought to stay a step ahead in case she was needed.

Understanding this, Claire had set off with her to the place - a cheap diner downtown - with relatively few questions, considering how talkative he usually was. Though he'd stumbled in the past, he'd learned by now when to leave his woman to her own devices.

"Such a strong woman, my Chane." He said, placing a hand to his chest. "You know, it always gets me going when you talk like that."

_'Hush. We are in public.' _She said, shooting a glance around their surroundings. As usual, they gathered an array of strange, sidelong glances, and one or two people who openly stared.

But Claire, seemingly oblivious, just slung his arm around her shoulder and grinned. "You're right, we _are _in public. Which means I should be showing off to everyone that I've got someone so attractive."

_'That is not what I meant.'_

Claire tilted his head. "Huh?"

Determined not to cause a scene, not when they had a job to do, Chane decided not to push the issue. She'd long grown used to the public curiosity they attracted, and the judgmental looks of those who assumed one or both of them was mental. Not that she blamed them. How could anyone guess that they communicated despite her silence?

_'Let us go in.'_

Claire nodded, approving. He wanted to get to the bottom of this case too, as quickly as possible. They were abstaining from talking to Huey Laforet for now, for clear reasons, but the other investigative route proved promising as well. Claire had been bothered by the news last night as well, but for different reasons. He didn't like knowing there were gears and cogs turning in his world that he couldn't see. If he figured out this case, and its relation to Chane's father, then he'd feel more secure, more back in control of his world.

"Alright, let's go get ourselves some information. I hope they're feeling talkative, today. For their sake." Claire said, scouting the area so that he'd be prepared in case he needed to 'coerce' some answers out of someone.

When they entered the diner, he surveyed the wait staff, trying to determine who'd be the most willing to talk. Someone who was on break, perhaps? Or someone who looked naive enough to want to talk to them? As Claire pondered the question, Chane laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah? What is it?"

_'We should sit down. The promise of a tip will make them want to talk to us more.'_

"Ah, Chane, brilliant as always. Why didn't I think of that?"

She shrugged. His complimenting her in public always made her even more impossible than in private, though she hadn't thought that possible.

It wasn't long before a waitress approached them, a young woman with long, black hair and a hard expression that made Claire think she'd be willing to share damning information on a customer without even hesitating. So long as there was a proper incentive. Seizing the perfect opportunity, he asked her to seat them in an emptier corner of the restaurant, one that would still keep them in her section. Despite the odd request, she complied, and so they ended up in a secluded booth in the back.

"What do you think of this place?" Claire asked his partner as he looked around, not bothering to hide his sizing the place up.

_'It is a diner. Nothing more, nothing less.'_

"Well, that's not exactly true. It's a diner with _us _in it, which means it's more."

_'I do not understand.'_

"Isn't it obvious? Okay, get this. So, it's like addition, see - "

"May I take your order?"

Fortunately for Chane, the waitress arrived and cut off Claire's no doubt incomprehensible explanation. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding a lined notepad.

"Oh, we don't actually want anything to eat." Claire said, with a smile.

"Excuse me?"

It was times like this when Chane almost wished she had the ability to speak, if only to mediate for Claire's blithe and blunt communication. As it stood, though, she had no way of talking unless she asked for the waitress's notepad. And Chane suspected that would only make the girl _more _wary and unwilling to speak to the duo.

Fortunately, Claire quickly added to his statement. "We've got some questions. And it'd be in everyone's best interest if you gave us some answers. You following?"

"I'm just a waitress. I don't know what _answers _I have for you." She said, her grip on the notepad tightening. She'd have made a move and excuse to leave, if not for the fact that her section of the diner was visibly empty at the moment.

"Okay, well this'll be quick then." Claire reassured. "Were you here on - hey, Chane, what's the day again?"

Chane thought back to the dates on the bank statement. _'Last Friday.'_

"Thanks." Claire said, before turning his attention back to the waitress. "On last Friday? The evening?"

The waitress stared at them with a furrowed brow, disbelief in her eyes. She wanted to dismiss it as her just not having heard the woman answer, but she was confident in her senses, and the woman hadn't made a sound. The odd couple just kept getting stranger. But perhaps due to that sense of strangeness, she did not feel that she had the option of backing out of answering the man's questions.

"Yeah. Yeah, I worked that day. All day, just about." She said.

The private investigators exchanged a glance, and it was all Chane needed to pull out a picture of their missing person from her pocket and hand it over to the Claire. She always carried key documents for their cases around, since she knew Claire likely wouldn't, believing that it'd all work out without him having to. Taking the photo, Claire showed it to the waitress.

"Was this guy here?" He asked.

The waitress barely glanced at it. "What are you guys, the police? Because I don't think I should be talking to anyone without getting your badges. At least."

Unshaken, Claire grinned. "We're the police. We're just in the private sector instead."

"Oh? Really?"

Chane couldn't tell whether the waitress was being sarcastic or not. Because there was no way that explanation should be able to fool anyone. Back when she first started with Claire, this was the point where she began constructing a back-up plan. It didn't take long for her to discover, however, that with Claire, there was no such thing as a back-up plan. Because he didn't even have a primary plan - just a series of actions that happened to always yield positive results.

"Yeah." He said with a confident shrug. Then, as insurance, he pulled out his wallet and held it with his hand on the table, a visible gesture."So you got an answer for me?"

Though the waitress still looked cross - she hated being talked to in that manner - she decided to answer anyway. At least that way, she'd get them out of the diner as quickly as possible and not have to deal with the weird pair anymore. She glanced at Chane, wondering why the woman _still _hadn't said a word.

"Last Friday, he came in here around six. Didn't stay long. I wouldn't have remembered him, except that he was rude to me." She said, frowning at the memory. Hadn't left a tip either, but she figured that was irrelevant.

"Did you hear anything he said? Any little thing about where he might have gone from here could be important."

"No. I didn't hear a thing. Sorry."

Claire looked at Chane, who simply shook her head. Nothing more could be done on the matter, so they might as well get going. She got the feeling they weren't going to be able to extract anything else out of the woman. Already, she felt a wash of disappointment, since this had been their only route aside from Dallas's deals with Huey.

Agreeing with his partner's silent assessment, Claire decided to head out, too. Further interrogation wasn't going to yield more information, and the waitress hardly deserved it just for not eavesdropping. Claire believed he only in employed extreme tactics on those who practically asked for it. He dug out a few dollars from his wallet.

"Thanks anyway. Here's a tip, just let us know if you remember anything."

The waitress took it, wondering how she was supposed to get in touch with them without a number. But since she had no desire to speak with them again, she remained silent, hoping they'd forget that detail. Maybe if she distracted them, it'd help as well.

"One more thing." She said, before the two could exit the booth.

"What's that?" Claire said.

She debated giving them the information she still held. After all, what if she could get something for it? Like more money, or some other bribe, or something. She liked the feeling of holding that potential in her hands, of having that meager bit of power.

But then she looked into Claire's eyes, and upon recognizing some unspeakable force in them, some sealed-off violence that roughened the outline of the pupil and inflamed the edges of the iris, she found the information dropping from her lips without a second thought.

"He didn't come here alone. There was another man with him."

"You know who it was?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I overheard his name. He was a detective. A Detective Russo, or something like that."

Claire didn't recognize the name, and upon glancing at Chane, saw that she didn't either. Still, the information helped. Even if the detective had no involvement in the man's death, he might know where Dallas Genoard had gone.

He started to thank the girl again, but she turned on her heel and left without another word, hurrying away from the two. Claire was not phased; he'd had plenty of people respond to him like that before. It neither bothered nor empowered him, so much as struck him as a simple fact of his life. With a shrug, he took Chane's hand, and they exited the diner.

_'Do you wish to talk to the detective from here?'_

"Nah, I don't think so, Chane."

The more Claire thought about the situation, the more questions formed in his mind. For one - why was a defense attorney meeting with a detective? It wasn't as if Dallas had any ongoing cases at the moment, having hit a career slump even with his victory in the Smith trial. And all reports indicated that the Genoard had no friends within the force. Had few friends period, at that. The other obvious question was, if this Russo knew what happened to Dallas, why hadn't he spoken up? Claire didn't know whether or not their client had checked with the police first, but he couldn't imagine that wasn't the case. It didn't add up. None of this was adding up anymore.

At Chane's questioning look, he added, "What do you say we pull some surveillance on this guy? You up for it?"

Chane nodded, her expression brightening. Because at least if she was performing surveillance, she'd feel as if she had an active hand in the unfolding of these strange events. As long as she remained useful and involved, she would not think on her father and feel helpless anymore.

And, she realized, as her partner squeezed her hand, she'd _never_ have to feel that way with this man by her side. The man who, even when her father didn't, always made an effort to keep her integrally involved in the going-ons of his life. Struck with a sudden but quiet appreciation, she gave Claire her almost-smile, and answered:

_'Of course. With you, I can be up for anything.'_

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed.


	13. The Detective Becomes the Judged

Everything about the judge's chambers was clinical, almost cold in its austerity. From the mathematical positioning of the sparse furniture that implied a design for maximum efficiency, to the clean white color of the walls and floor, to the hundreds of files meticulously organized and displayed through a transparent cabinet. The only hint of a personal touch laid in the sheer amount of books packed into the shelves; even the precise organization of the texts could not hide all the bookmarks and post-its littering the pages of every single one.

Strangest still about the office, however, was the lack of any symbol alluding to the legal nature of it. Whereas most judges and attorneys kept a token of the justice system - a statue, a plaque, an American flag - Huey Laforet's office remained conspicuously absent of any such trifles. In its stead, the plain, oak desk took the forefront of the room, leaving the impression that this room did not belong to the state, nor to the courts, but to the man sitting with his hands folded atop the polished surface.

The standard black robes contrasted sharply against Huey's features, making even more stark the luminescent paleness of his flesh, the pale golden color of his irises. In this manner, Huey's very appearance encompassed both light and dark, sans anything in between.

Firo took a seat opposite the man, in a significantly smaller wooden chair. Another calculation, a planned furniture arrangement to inflict diminutive status on the person before the judge. From the time the assistant admitted him entrance, Firo didn't break eye contact with Huey. At once, he'd recognized the look in the judge's eyes - that bored, analytical expression that reduced its recipient to an insignificant variable. Firo received variations on that look often, due to his youthful appearance and urban background. He didn't know which offended him more - the underestimating him, or the presumption that the person had the right to estimate him at all.

Asserting authority, Huey spoke first. "So, Officer Prochainezo, correct? What is it you are here for?"

The French accent twisting through Huey's words took Firo by surprise. It was the first time he'd spoken with Huey, and though he'd heard references to the "Frenchie" judge, Firo had assumed it was a jab at the man's name. What was a Frenchman doing as a judge in the States? Though it struck him as weird, Firo shrugged it off. Took all kinds, especially in the justice system.

Besides, now was the time to get down to business. He'd organized the information he'd come across last night and brought it with him in a manila folder. In fact, that was the only thing he'd done before coming over to the judge's chambers that morning, with the hopes of catching him before the court schedule became too busy.

"Actually, it's _Detective _Prochainezo. With the homicide division, of the Martillo precinct? I'm sure you've heard of us." Firo said.

Huey waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, I know the department. That name has no bearing here."

Firo's mouth set into a hard line, eyes narrowing. "Then you wouldn't mind answering some questions for me, would you?"

"Well now, that depends, now doesn't it? What is this regarding?"

Though his hands fiddled with the evidence folder, eager to confront Huey with the hard facts, Firo kept himself in check. Brashness wouldn't help here. He had to remember procedure, often the most difficult part of law enforcement for him.

"Why don't you tell me about the Raz Smith case, Mr. Laforet?"

Slowly, Huey raised an eyebrow. Not a gesture of surprise, but rather, of a man who has observed an unusual development. His eyes didn't flicker once, betraying nothing to the detective, who kept a close watch.

"A most interesting case you are inquiring about. But I must ask - what is there to say? It should all be in the reports, Detective."

"How about why was he let off, when all accounts say the prosecution had the verdict locked up tight? He was guilty."

"Ah, now there is a question for you. Guilty, not guilty, what are these but terms we ascribe to our people to make ourselves feel more secure? A guilty verdict has little to do with guilt. Just as a not guilty has nothing to do with innocence. There was insufficient evidence against Raz Smith to try him. It has nothing to do with _guilty_."

Firo didn't appreciate the unnecessary elaboration. Anyone who worked in the system could have spouted the same concepts, he thought with a frown. "Yeah, it's funny, isn't it? How all of Smith's evidence suddenly became lost?"

Leaning back in his chair, Huey glanced at the ceiling. "We must have different senses of humor, Detective. It seems to me like a common side effect of this process we call justice."

"That implies it doesn't have a cause. This kind of evidenciary loss doesn't just _happen._"

"And why ever would you presume I have any knowledge of this? What even makes you bring this case up again?"

"Because he's dead. Murdered, actually."

Intended to shock, the statement only elicited a slight downturn of Huey Laforet's lips. Still studying the ceiling, he said, "That is unfortunate."

"What? Why would that be unfortunate? Some would say it's one less killer in the world, you know."

Now, Huey's eyes snapped back to the detective's. "If you thought that, you would not be here. And it is unfortunate because his involvement in this world yielded interesting results. Nothing more. And nothing less."

"What makes you keep talking like you have no involvement in any of this?"

"Because I do not. He was not worth my attention, even in life. I simply distribute justice."

"Right, right, the judge, just the unbiased party of the system. You really believe that?" Firo asked, irritation flaring up. It was as if Huey just absolved himself of any guilt, of any responsibility, in the matter.

"What I believe is not your business."

"It is when the victim of it is my case. Get it?"

"Detective Prochainezo, if you do not get to the point, I will have to ask you to leave my office. Intriguing as your arrogance was at first, your act is wearing thin."

"It's not an act." Firo said, fingers clenching into fists. At first glance, he'd decided he did not like Huey Laforet, and the more their conversation progressed, the more his initial impression proved correct. Firo didn't have to pretend to be anything. And it wasn't arrogance if it was deserved.

"You must excuse me. Your most unfortunately real personality is wearing thin, then."

Oh, how Firo wished to take down Judge Laforet, the man's connection to Chane and Claire be damned. How could Chane be related to this man? Sure, they shared the same icy impression, and looked identical, but he couldn't imagine Huey having the same capacity for caring underneath that attitude.

"How about we switch gears then? Let's talk about Dallas Genoard. You're acquainted, correct?" Firo said.

"But of course. He is an attorney, I am a judge, we are in the same area. He is bound to show up in my courtroom sooner or later."

"And? What's your relationship with him like?"

"Non-existent. He is an unpleasant person - slovenly, rude, and a thug who harbors a painfully obvious superiority complex." Huey said, listing each item with as much affect as one would read a grocery list.

"So you don't associate with him outside of work, is what you're saying." Firo said.

"Why would I?"

"Just answer the question, alright?"

Huey's eyes narrowed. "I would have to answer in the negative, Detective."

_Gotcha_, Firo thought. With the energy of someone who'd held back the whole time, Firo opened up the manila folder and whipped out the bank statements, along with the identification that traced the account payments back to Huey Laforet.

"Then what's your money doing being transferred into his account? You want to explain that one to me?" Firo said.

Huey reached out to take the paper, but Firo pulled it back. He wasn't about to let evidence fall into the hands of a suspect, even if that man was a judge. _Especially _since the man was a judge, and therefore knew how to manipulate evidence.

It took a moment, but the judge withdrew his hand and pressed his fingertips against his temple, eyes shutting.

"My financial affairs are of no concern to you. Or the police force. Is that clear?"

"It is when the person you've been paying is missing. And one of his clients, who was in _your _courtroom, is missing. Is that clear?"

When Huey's eyes opened again, they were clear and flat once more. Any trace of surprise or annoyance had evaporated.

"Is Mr. Genoard officially registered as missing?"

Shifting, Firo looked to the side. "Well, no, but that doesn't mean - "

"Is there evidence suggesting these transactions are anything more than gifts to an acquaintance, or perhaps a case of identity fraud?"

"I have your prior answer that you didn't associate with - "

"And was that recorded? Is this an official interview, held under the precinct's procedural standards?"

"No, but - "

"Do you have anything but some flimsy numbers and your own, hasty judgment with which to cast guilt upon me? What, in fact, are you even suggesting that I have done?"

"I don't know exactly, yet. That's what I'm trying to find out. That's why I'm -"

"You have nothing. And this has ceased to interest me. You are a most predictable specimen, detective. I'm afraid - "

"Now wait just a minute. And stop interrupting me." Firo snapped. "I don't care that I don't have solid proof right now. I don't care that I'm not _interesting _to you. I know you're guilty, of accessory or conspiracy or _something,_ if not to outright murder, and I am going to bring you down. This _uninteresting _specimen is going to show you a thing or two. Do you understand?"

Huey held out both hands, wrists turned upwards. "Then arrest me, Detective Prochainezo."

Firo stared at the man in disbelief. "What?"

"If you are going to take me down, you had better arrest me now. Because you will not find any more evidence of any involvement on my part in this charade. If that is all you have, then arrest me, or else leave me in peace and do not return."

Firo rose to his feet. He'd love to slap his handcuffs around Huey's wrists, to read him his rights at this exact moment, just to see that illusion of control and superiority on Huey's face shatter into pieces. But he had no arrest warrant, and not nearly enough evidence to get one at the moment. He couldn't get a warrant on what he had on a regular citizen, let alone an honored judge. Much as Firo loathed it, he had to be patient, for once.

"I'll return. And I'll have a nice pair of handcuffs for you when I do. You'll regret the day you underestimated me. You can stake your life on it."

Huey did not so much as blink. "I intend to do just that."

And with that, Firo turned and exited the room, knowing that pushing it any further would only result in his forcible removal. The last thing he needed was that blight on his record, to keep him from being able to serve justice to Huey when he actually had the means and the right to. As he made his way out of the office, Firo grit his teeth, mind racing.

What on earth did Huey Laforet have to do with the missing Genoard, anyway? What reason would he have for paying the man off? None of Firo's questions had been answered, and it gnawed at him, as failure always did. All the visit had done was confirm his suspicions that Huey was involved in some manner. But it'd done that in a more potent way than Firo ever expected.

Huey was bad news. Whatever his part in the homicide, in the missing person, he was wrapped deep in it. Firo could tell from the look in the man's eyes alone. The judge had no care for the justice system, for the law, for the people his job forced him to serve. In that regard, Firo and Huey were flip sides of the same coin. The difference was - the bonds of the facsimile of a family bound Firo to the law. What bound Huey to it was anyone's guess.

All Firo knew was that a darkness lurked inside the figure of 'justice.' And Firo's judgment on such matters had never been wrong before. He'd get to the bottom of the affair, of that he remained certain. Huey's insults, both subtle and overt, only fueled the fire of his determination to prove himself a worthy opponent. A worthy addition to the Martillo precinct.

This case was his to shut down. And soon, Huey Laforet would be as well.

* * *

Inside the judge's chambers, Huey Laforet picked up his telephone receiver and placed a call, pulling the phone number from memory.

On the other end, it rang only once.

Careful with his words, in case of a wiretap, Huey said, "Do you remember that matter we spoke about earlier?"

A pause. Then, Huey nodded. "Yes, well, it appears I have another experiment for you. I trust you will take care of this matter adequately."

He leaned back in the chair. "Firo Prochainezo. A detective, it would seem. You should be able to divine the rest for yourself, yes?"

Fiddling with a strand of his black hair, Huey nodded again. "Good. Inform the others. And let me know when you have carried it out with success. Do not contact me in the meantime."

He placed the receiver back in its cradle. And as he glanced at the closed door of his office, a smirk crept over his expression.

_'Detective Prochainezo, hm? A few tests should determine just how competent a subject you are. But, as is my assessment now - I do not believe I, nor anyone else, will be hearing of you again.'_

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading!


	14. The Consultants Continue to Intrude

"We shouldn't be doing this, Boss."

"Should, shouldn't, what are these words but the same exact thing, tied up in different - but only _aesthetically_ different - packages? They're limits, intended to suck the potential out of life and constrain you to a tiny, set, controlled little area. Like chains, or ropes, or handcuffs, or any other binding. So really, when you say _shouldn't_, you might as well be saying _should_, because it's the exact same thing."

Shaft wished he could record that single spiel of Graham's and keep it with him, because it so perfectly encompassed every single reason why attempting to talk to the man was utterly hopeless in every possible way. So next time someone asked him - "why didn't you just stop him?" - he could play back that rant and have all questions and doubts dispelled. It'd probably be great for court, too, when Graham inevitably got them detained at the hands of the law.

In fact, he feared that their current misadventure would be the one to land them there. Graham had shoved him out of bed early that morning, chattering on about some call Ladd placed to them. They had to leave now, at that exact moment, at six in the morning. Tired, Shaft would have complained, but he'd still gotten more sleep that night than in the entire past week.

After some frustrating inquiry, he figured out that Ladd had told Graham the autopsy on the homicide victim was set to take place that afternoon. At that, Shaft suggested that they didn't need to actually be present at the autopsy. He could simply come into possession of the report shortly after the medical examiner filed it, and they could work off the notes there. Easy enough, since he maintained multiple intelligence contacts in the examiner's office. However, Graham quickly dismissed this notion with some clamoring about needing to _see _the body in order to fully comprehend the manner of death. One failed argument later, and the two were walking from the parking lot over to the medical examiner's place of work.

"Why isn't Boss Ladd attending the autopsy? Technically, that's his responsibility."

Graham thrust his hands upward in excitement, nearly whacking Shaft in the head with that conspicuous wrench that he'd practically _begged _Graham not to take with them. Nothing shouted 'we don't belong' louder than a giant mechanical tool.

"Who are we to question the greatness that is Boss Ladd? Here's a sad, sad story for you, Shaft. Boss Ladd is filled with countless responsibilities, to a degree that we mere consultants can't even _comprehend_, and he asks me in his trust and in his kindness to take care of one itsy, little thing for him. And you here - _you _insist that I deny him that singular request. Like a traitor."

"Yes, one _itsy, little _thing. Meaning, an entire case."

They entered the building, and Shaft sighed. He already knew he wouldn't be able to talk Graham out of this task. He just couldn't resist giving his last futile efforts, trying to yank them from the inevitable mess they encroached upon. It'd earn him more pain, in the end, but he wasn't only trying to get himself out of trouble. With Graham's eccentricity, the man was bound to get himself into wrapped up in danger sooner or later. Shaft's frustrated attempts at caution were just as much about protecting Graham as they were about keeping himself safe. Maybe even more so, since he hadn't up and left in an attempt to make his life easier. Yet.

The two earned strange looks as they made their way towards the medical examiner's section of the hospital. Beads of sweat gathered on Shaft's forehead as they underwent intense looks of scrutiny, especially from the security staff. This was a most inopportune time to get caught. Shaft fit in just fine, with his casual suit and tie, calculated to let him blend right in with the environment. Graham, on the other hand - well, what would one expect to see a mechanic in a hospital for?

Of course, Graham remained blissfully unaware of the tension his presence brought to the area. Rather, he let the elation run through him, the promise of fulfilling an assignment given to him by none other than his hero, Ladd Russo. When he looked at the future, he saw the gleaming light that came at the end of a happy story. In good spirits, he clasped one hand down on his partner's shoulder. He didn't understand why Shaft flinched at the touch. He did that a lot, these days. It confused Graham; he only wanted to share his excitement with his companion, the only one who'd understand it.

To compensate for his puzzlement, and to take his mind from the matter, Graham turned his abundance of energy elsewhere and spouted some philosophy about the hospital environment and the state of health in the world today. Shaft barely commented on the rant, for once, even to insult it. He was too irritated with his boss's lack of willingness to discuss the issues with Ladd's latest series of orders. For the duration of their walk to the medical examiner's workplace, the two carried on a one-sided conversation, with Graham growing progressively louder, and Shaft's decorum progressively deteriorating into weariness.

They met their first obstacle - a bored-looking receptionist holding court over the area - with ease. Shaft had prepared an excuse if someone questioned them, a false technical explanation which relied entirely on the other party not knowing that consultants didn't actually gain temporary departmental privileges. Which, given the state of most employees, Shaft believed was a safe bet. However, it only took one minute of Graham's talking, combined with the careless swinging of the wrench, for the receptionist to push them along to the coroner's autopsy room without so much as asking for their identification.

Inside, Ennis stood in front of a counter with her back to the door, gathering up her array of gleaming, silver scalpels, scissors, and tweezers. Dressed in blue scrubs, her hands covered with white latex gloves, she looked focused and prepared to work on the task ahead. On the table in the center of the room, the body of the deceased laid stretched out, eerily intact save for the destruction of the cranium.

Upon hearing footsteps enter, she glanced back, expecting to find the primary detective there. She'd been waiting on him to begin the autopsy, though he'd failed to make contact with her after she informed him of the scheduled time. Instead, two unknown persons caught her eye, looking entirely unlike any detectives she'd seen before. Slowly, and keeping her fingers wrapped firmly around one of her scalpels, she turned around to face them.

"This area is off-limits to non-personnel. You will have to leave."

Worried about losing control over the situation, Shaft stepped forward. Laying his sharp eyes on the coroner, he slid on a polite grin and tried to pull back together his composure. He opened his mouth to begin his prepared explanation, when a hard swat to the forearm had him wincing and shutting up.

Graham glared at his partner for a brief second, the volatile motion of his emotions swinging to anger. He'd already _said _that he'd handle this part, at least a dozen times. Sometimes, he wondered if Shaft even listened to him. The man could be horrendously predictable at times, and so Graham already knew what strategy he'd picked to swindle the woman. Deception through technicality - how utterly _boring_. Fortunately, Graham had just the solution to break down that tedium.

"Now, now, now, that's a little presumptuous of you, don't you think? Say, for instance, we _are _actually personnel, and you've just gone and dismissed us based on our appearances alone. How insulted, I should feel. Oh yes, yes, that's very _upsetting_. Will you offer an apology, to us?" He said, the wrench swinging to point at the doctor.

Ennis didn't bat an eye. "Do you have proper identification?"

"Well of course, certainly. What kind of officers would we be if we didn't?"

Shaft stared at his partner, eyes wide. He had no idea what Graham was trying to pull, but he saw no possibility of their claiming to be police officers ending well. His bafflement increased when Graham pulled out an identification card from his pocket and held it out to the woman.

Ennis took the I.D and inspected it, still dubious of the 'officer' and his story. She'd met some strange officers during her time as a coroner, but this man outdid all of them. However, she could find no faults with the card, no discrepancies that hinted towards a counterfeit job. She could not fathom why someone would go through all that trouble to attend an autopsy, anyway. Satisfied, but still harboring suspicion, she returned the card to the man.

Graham beamed as he placed it back in his pocket. "There, you see? Now we've cleared up our misunderstanding and can make our way to a happier story. I'd ask for an apology for your insult, but now that I think about it, I really should have presented the card first thing. Yes, yes when I think of it that way, it's _me _who was at fault for criticizing you. I ought to be apologizing to you, and begging for forgiveness."

Was everybody in the Russo department this strange? Ennis didn't usually end up with their cases, so she had to wonder. Whatever the case, she just wished to get through the autopsy as quickly as possible. As long as the duo did not interrupt her work, she could deal with them, whatever their strangeness.

She turned her back again, getting together her tray of medical instruments. "Alright. Please stand back and do not disturb me during the autopsy. I will let you know my observations."

"Well, in that case - we'll be sure to grant you the peace your work deserves. My words will be a sacrifice for the importance of this case." Graham said, miming clasping a hand over his mouth.

Shaft shook his head, knowing what the probability of that particular promise coming true was - approximately zero. As soon as the medical examiner shifted her attention elsewhere, and he deemed her properly distracted, he turned to his partner.

"Where did you get that identification?" He asked.

Graham shrugged. "Boss Ladd gave it to me for cases like this. Wasn't that thoughtful of him? He really does think of everything. Another indicator of his brilliance."

The answer failed to alleviate any of Shaft's troubles. So now, Ladd Russo wasn't just sliding them cases under the table, he was actually giving Graham illegal documentation for it. Shaft held no particular qualms with breaking the law, and he personally ventured into illegal realms with much of his work, but this was on a whole different level. Mostly because it could very well land them in prison.

Despairing, he tried to reason with his partner. In a hushed tone, Shaft urged, "Boss - impersonating an officer is a _felony_. If she decides to run that identification number, we could go to federal _prison_."

Aside from raising an eyebrow, Graham's expression remained unperturbed. "Now, now, don't be absurd, Shaft. Really, I expected better of you. Impersonating an officer is a class A _misdemeanor_."

"Not if we're commissioning a crime with it."

"And what crime do you suggest we are commissioning? I see none here. In fact, we're _helping _the law, and _fighting_ crime. They ought to give us accolades, awards for our work. Can you imagine that? Ah, how exciting!"

"Please keep your voice down, Boss. And of course, you're right. We're only trespassing, is all. No crime in that."

"Sarcasm is quite ugly on you, Shaft. Fortunately for you, I have the courage and the kindness to look past that and accept you regardless. So our companionship ends as a happy, compelling tale."

"Happy isn't the word I'd use right now, to be - "

From across the room, Ennis cleared her throat and interrupted. "Excuse me. Can you two please be quiet now? I am about to begin the autopsy."

She'd only caught snippets of their conversation, mostly from the louder man, and she could not make sense of what she heard. Still, it gave her a distinct sense of unease. It was rare for officers to quarrel like that in the autopsy room. Especially with the deceased laying right there. The callousness of it struck her as either incredibly careless, or horribly cold. Ennis made a mental note to ask Firo if he knew the pair when she returned home, just in case.

When Ennis received silence in return, aside from a mumbled apology from the plainer-looking man, she picked up her recorder and clicked a button. Standing over the body, she began her report.

"Dr. Ennis, about to begin autopsy on deceased, Maddock. Step one, basic external information is as follows..."

* * *

By the time the autopsy neared completion, Shaft had filled several pages of his portable notepad with observations. He'd jotted down the key points, though almost none of them came as a surprise: _"Time of death at least twenty-four hours prior to discovery. Manner of death: Homicide. Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head. Fatal injury sustained to the back of the head. Bullet removed, .22 caliber, ballistics testing to be scheduled. No defensive wounds. Evidence body was moved, but not substantially. Evidence of prior long-term drug abuse. No drugs found in system.' _

The last piece of information made Shaft feel a twinge of sympathy, when he remembered the car theft group's comments on the man's addiction. As a person of checkered history, he was not one who believed a man should be judged on the contents of his past.

To Graham's credit, the man remained quieter than usual during the examination. Though he could not hold back a couple lengthy speeches, and he posed a new question at least twice a minute, it still beat Shaft's expectations. Graham found himself fascinated by the autopsy, enamored with the process of taking the corpse apart and breaking it down into its basic parts. To him, it was the same as watching a broken machine being dismantled to determine the root of its malfunction. The whole procedure filled him with excitement.

He tried to share this sensation with his partner, but Shaft barely acknowledged him, too busy taking notes. Determined to win back Shaft's attention, he reached upward with the intention of snatching the man's collar.

However, his attempts were thwarted when Shaft sidestepped the grab without realizing it, perfectly and unconsciously in tune to Graham's whims. Still looking at the notepad, he walked towards the door, leaving his partner behind.

"I'll be back in a minute, Boss. Just going to see if any progress has been made elsewhere in this case." He said.

Though he was dissatisfied with the explanation, Graham didn't have time to express it before Shaft was out the door. Despite how close the two had become, Graham still had no idea how Shaft obtained his reports and information. Over the years, their lives bled into one another, every thought and secret and habit shared between the two. And yet, there was always a small section, a locked part of the man, that Graham felt he could not reach. Because he trusted Shaft, he refrained from questioning about it. He could not, however, refrain from wondering, from theorizing, from becoming frustrated.

"If I took you apart, would I be able to discover the secrets you hide somewhere inside yourself? Questions, questions, so many impossible questions this life offers me." Graham mused to himself, staring off into space, just quietly enough for Ennis to ignore.

* * *

Outside the room, leaning against the hospital wall and trying to remain inconspicuous, Shaft found two messages left for him. A pleasant surprise - his first of the day. His network obtained documents quickly, but this was still sooner than he'd anticipated.

The first message contained the psychological profile on their mystery killer. Shaft thought it strange that the case should warrant a profiling; after all, a single hit on a known criminal and addict wasn't an extraordinary occurrence, nor did he suspect the motives would be complex. Combined with their lack of any substantial evidence, the profile seemed entirely unnecessary. But then, it did make sense, considering who the profile at the department was: Lua Klein, fiancé to none other than Detective Ladd Russo.

Shaft had no idea what to make of Lua Klein. On one hand, his interactions with her were always calm and pleasant. And he'd plenty of them, since whenever Graham decided to get together with Ladd, Shaft ended up ignored and stuck making conversation with Lua. She was a quiet woman, serene nearly to the point of emptiness. Distant almost to the point of vapidity. Oddly wise, at the most unexpected times. Always keeping an eye on Ladd, always moving in time with him, so oddly and intricately connected. A strange woman, one he did not quite understand. If Shaft hadn't seen her work, he'd never have pegged her for such a brilliant psychologist.

Regardless, however, of his personal opinions on Lua Klein, the swiftness of the report bothered him. The report should not have been drawn up so soon; the autopsy report hadn't even been finalized. Not enough evidence existed to make an accurate assessment. This caused Shaft to believe that Ladd had spoken to the profiler about the case, and it was his influence that led to the report's existence and its quickness. Though not technically wrong, Shaft disapproved of Ladd's actions. Especially since Ladd had barely touched the case, and therefore held considerably less knowledge than the consultants.

Nevertheless, Shaft possessed no power to make that judgment, much less to do anything about his discomfort. Since the report was in his hands, he might as well read it. Speedily, he scanned through the profile, hoping to extract new information. Lua's profiles were always golden, however unusual the circumstances.

The report exceeded his expectations. The woman drew conclusions even Shaft hadn't come to yet, intelligence network and all. The profile revealed several key aspect of the killer: definitely a male, probably middle-aged, experienced in terms of murder, few if none in terms of family, possible sociopath, and most importantly - a professional killer.

These basic facts, which Shaft jotted down in his notepad despite having the report on him, did not do justice to the eloquence of Lua's work. Even going off of just one kill, she utilized the environment, the time of day, the juxtaposition of the crime scene, the position of the body - all those small, minor details, she constructed into a logical and realistic psychological profile. She wrote simply, in terms of fact, without an iota of judgment or criticism for the subject. It was almost as if she was inside the person's head, lovingly studying their inner workings. In that regard, her writing always chilled Shaft to the bone.

Satisfied, he moved on to the second message. A report from one of the officers working with Ladd Russo, who'd run the crime through some local databases. The man came up with a name that best matched the description of the crime and included it in the report. Frowning, Shaft tried to place where he'd heard the name before, but drew a blank. Perhaps Graham would remember better.

Though he'd finished his work and could return inside to Graham, Shaft decided to take another minute away. He hadn't gotten more than a few seconds to himself since they began the investigation, and it was beginning to take its toll on him. Even now, Graham's incessant chattering lingered in his mind, an echo of the inescapable sound that filled his days. Would he ever be able to feel at peace again? Or was Graham's presence like a stain, one that he could never scrub clean? An interesting dilemma for him to consider.

Interrupting his thoughts, Shaft caught sight of a familiar-looking figure out of the corner of his eye. Or, he believed he did, since when he glanced over at the spot, no one was there. Shaft stared at the spot for a few more seconds, hoping the person would reappear. Who had it been? He wasn't sure, only that it sparked recognition. An intuitive unease, that sense of being followed, crept up on him. Shaft placed a hand against his head and sighed, dismissing the irrational fear. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe Graham had finally driven him completely insane.

As if summoned by the mere contemplation of his name, the swung open as Graham exited the autopsy room and walked over to his partner. He'd grown tired of waiting, especially since Ennis refused to engage him and his long-winded rants. Plus, the medical examiner had more or less told him to leave at once, or else she'd call security. Apparently, dismantling her medical equipment was against the rules of the hospital.

He reached out a hand to his partner and lamented, "Shaft! What a woeful story - I've been kicked out of the autopsy area, prohibited from coming back inside. How terrible of me, what a crime I've committed, to inconvenience the woman who has shown me so kindly the means by which to dismantle the human body. I must apologize to her, no, the receptionist too, no, no, the whole hospital. No, no, wait, no - the whole medical _profession_!"

Reluctantly, Shaft grabbed the woe-stricken man's hand with his own. Graham's fingers latched onto his like an iron vise, as unyielding as the wrench he carried. He glanced around the hospital and said, "I don't think that's necessary, Boss."

"Oh, and what would you suggest instead, Shaft? Oh, I know! How about you deliver whatever news was so important you had to leave me there alone? Tell me, is it enough to turn this tragedy into a happy story after all? Tell me, Shaft!" He cried.

"Well, since a happy story for me would be finishing this case, and I've figured out who our murderer is..._ow_!"

Graham's fingers clamped down tighter still, sending a spasm of pain through Shaft's hand. "Why didn't you start off with that? To delay is to waste time, which is to waste energy, which is to waste the essence of life. And every second we delay is a part of Boss Ladd's life we've wasted, keeping him waiting for the answer. Who killed him, Shaft? Who? Don't tell me unless you're certain."

Shaft winced, wanting to escape, but only able to press his back tighter against the wall. When Graham's response was to lean in closer and clutch onto his hand tight enough that he could feel his bones close to snapping, Shaft let out a yelp of pain and spat out the answer.

"Raz Smith! It was Raz Smith, the professional killer. I'm certain, Boss. Just please, oh God, please stop that before you break my hand."

"Huh? Your hand?" Graham said, tilting his head. Then, at the flash of understanding, he let go of Shaft's fingers. He hadn't even realized he'd been squeezing that tightly; he'd just been so caught up in finding out the answer that his intense anticipation had dictated his body movements.

"Thanks, Boss." Shaft muttered, gingerly rubbing his opposite hand over his sore and swelling knuckles. "Do you recognize the name?"

"What? Oh, oh, yes. The name. Of course I recognize the name - don't you? We've worked with him before, back on some of Boss Ladd's more exciting cases. When he needed someone taken care of, if you know what I mean. Which you better, because I'm not explaining it."

Shaft nodded, the identity of the person coming back to him. They hadn't worked together in a long while now. "Of course. I must've repressed those memories. Wonder why." He said, remembering how he'd pleaded with Graham not to get mixed up with the professional killer. Last thing they needed was murder on their records, haunting their pasts. His urging hadn't worked, but fortunately, their work with the man hadn't caught up with them. Until now, apparently.

"So now this puts us in a terrible, compromising position. Do we stick to loyalty and let Boss Smith go free? Or do we obey our duty to the law and place him under arrest? Truly, this is the dilemma of life itself. Which is stronger - our ties to our comrades, or our ties to our society?"

With a shrug, Shaft cut off the line of philosophy. "Doesn't matter. He's dead, Boss. Murdered just after making this kill, it would appear."

"What? But, no - how can that be? Just yesterday, it was like he was by our side. And now he's dead? His life extinguished forever? How very, very _sad _this makes me. How many tears must I shed for companions lost? How many, Shaft?"

"Not as many as I shed over _not _having lost my companion."

"Cruelty. Cruelty added to my grief. And yet, your familiar mockery brings me out of the grip of mourning, back to the light of day. So perhaps I ought to thank you. Yes, you truly are a savior, Shaft."

Ignoring the mood-whiplash, Shaft studied his partner's hazy eyes. Was there true grief, hidden there amongst the dramatic sorrow? After a second, he caught a glimpse of it, that recognizable hint of loss that imbedded itself so deeply into the black pits of the pupils that its identity was unmistakable. He felt relief at this - the reminder that Graham still held onto some trace of humanity, despite his overt lunacy. For the first time in a while, Shaft wrapped his arm around the shorter man's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Boss."

"Don't be. Death is the unavoidable flip-side to life, the contrast that makes living a valuable experience. Without one, the other would not exist. In that regard, it make me happy that Raz Smith died, because it means that at one point, he really did live. But, wait, wait, I let me commend you on solving the case, Shaft. And without my assistance at that. I must know - how did you do it?"

"The M.O matches up. Every assassin has his mark, like an advertisement. So it's easy to determine when it's a specific assassin's work. And an officer back at the precinct found a deposit made into Smith's account at around the correct time. Though he never got the chance to use the money, of course. Let's put this case to rest and go home, Boss."

Graham shot his partner a confused look. He'd already been baffled by Shaft's gesture of affection, which was a rare occurrence for the composed and somewhat distant man. Especially while they were in public. He appreciated the touch, but didn't understand the motives. His grief at Raz Smith's death fled as quickly as it'd overtaken him, as fleeting as any other emotion. And now Shaft was talking about being done with the case? Clearly, a miscommunication had occurred.

"No, no, wrong, Shaft. Utterly wrong. We aren't done with the case. It's only just begun, you see? Like this was the prologue to a greater story, and now we've finally gotten to the thick of the plot. Isn't the next move obvious? We have to find out who murdered Boss Smith."

Shaft was already regretting his attempt at comfort. "There's already a detective assigned to that case, Boss. We can't just take it over."

"And has he come up with the killer yet? Yes? No? No, I didn't think so. We'll just have to figure it out for ourselves. We're the narrators of this story, after all."

A hundred protests entered Shaft's mind, each logical and soundly backed enough that he could argue them with marginal success. Not only were they crossing the line into illegal activity at this point, but now they were playing games with another detective's case. One who hadn't asked for their help, and probably did not want it. Not to mention, they had no place to be investigating Raz Smith's murder, given their history with him. This wasn't the case they'd been assigned. To investigate would be absurd. It'd be needless. It'd be painful. It'd be absolute foolishness. And, Shaft knew, it'd be exactly what they were going to do next.

Because Graham looked up at him with those bright eyes that brimmed with the vigorous excitement that Shaft coveted but never achieved, and the ensuing combination of admiration and envy never failed to swallow him whole. He opened his mouth, intent on refusing, but he could not force the words from his lips. Stuck, he could neither agree nor disagree with the awful plan, and he knew he'd regret his inaction later.

For now, Graham took the silence as acceptance. He slipped away from Shaft's hold, grabbing the man by his uninjured hand instead and pulling him towards the hospital entrance. They had no time to waste, not now that they were competing against another investigator.

This case had finally gotten exciting, and Graham was more determined to get to the bottom of it now than ever - for Ladd's sake, and Raz Smith's. Whatever the danger their intrusion may bring.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter is so long. Well, anyway, I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!


	15. The Officers Meet Their Opposition

"But we've proven it! Proven it definitely, amigo. It had to be attempted murder, just had to, so it's our case to solve."

"Doesn't matter. That's not enough evidence to take this away from the arson division."

"What do you mean, _not enough_, amigo? We have this paper, this one right here, that says a important person was supposed to be in the place that burned right on up. You just don't want to give us a chance, amigo."

"Nothing about your past behavior makes that an unexpected decision."

Maria's face flushed red, her expression contorting with unrestrained anger. At her side, her hands clenched into fists, and she glared at the man standing in front of her.

That morning, the first thing she and Tick decided to do was to meet with their superiors, so that they could discuss their findings and officially have the case designated to them. However, a brief explanation to their sergeant, Nicola Cassetti, had landed them in the precinct Commander's office. They presented the case before the commander, Keith Gandor, and it'd rapidly deteriorated into a disagreement between Maria and Nico. As of yet, Keith had not uttered a word. He simply sat behind his desk and watched the two try to make their argument.

Despite Maria's frequent antics, Nico tried to avoid actually having to wrangle with her, preferring to use deterrence rather than to outright scold or fight the woman. Though strict, Nico didn't want to waste energy on that type of foolery. That was why he'd been fond of Keith's decision to pair her with Tick; that way, her partner kept her in line instead. Often, the situation worked out that any trouble she stirred up didn't fall onto his shoulders, and so he paid little mind to her. Now, however, he had to draw the line.

Understanding who his real audience was, Nico decided to cut the argument off, and he turned to face Keith Gandor directly. "The person she mentions is Ricardo Russo. As in, direct heir to the head of the Russo division."

"So what, amigo? Doesn't matter if he's a somebody or nobody - someone tried to kill him, that's all that matters." Maria said, still speaking directly to Nico. She didn't think she had much of a chance at persuading him; an outwardly cold man, Nico never budged once he'd made a decision. But Maria had never let that stop her from fighting for her side to be heard.

Nico didn't even acknowledge her statement. "... Political trouble, Boss. That's what this will bring. You know that."

At being deliberately ignored, Maria's anger flared up even further. What, did Nicola have no confidence in her? After how hard she worked to prove herself? It wasn't fair.

_'I'll prove myself, amigo. Right here, right now.' _She thought, and her fingers curled around the hilt of her blade.

A soft hand on her upper arm stopped her motion, and took her briefly out of her haze of indignation. Previously silent until now, Tick had noticed his partner's intention and decided to step in and try to assist. He hadn't wanted to say anything before, because both Maria and Nico made intelligent points, and Tick didn't think he could contribute anything like that.

"Mm, Mr. Nico? Wouldn't it be _more _trouble if you _didn't _investigate the attempt on the person's life, and they found out?" He pointed out.

Nico shot the interrogator a cold stare. "I'm saying this kind of investigation needs to be done quietly."

"You saying we can't be quiet, amigo? We can be quiet if we need to, promise, amigo. Absolutely silent!"

"...My point exactly." Nico muttered at the outburst. The woman couldn't even be quiet while conferring with her coworkers. How could they entrust a delicate case to someone like that? Tick was better, but his own eccentricity still drew too much attention.

Keith gave the sergeant an understanding nod, just one short movement that conveyed the entirety of his message. He saw Nicola's concern and knew there was more than enough truth behind the man's words. From the start, Maria had been a wildcard, and no one in the department knew what to make of her. No one, that was, except Keith. In other cases, his subordinates might have come to him with complaints about her behavior. However, Keith had already made his verdict on Maria: she was a "good cop." Since the commander spoke so little, everyone took his words seriously whenever he did, and they refrained from contradicting him.

To be fair, he weighed both parties' words as he formulated his decision. Nico was an intensely loyal and talented man, and Keith trusted his judgment immensely. He predicted that the man would move up the ranks quickly at this rate, despite his harsh front. So he believed him about the political implications, and he believed Nico's motives revolved solely around keeping the precinct out of unnecessary trouble.

However, by allowing Maria into the department, he'd implicitly given his word that he'd give her a chance to pursue cases. He'd as good as promised her that he would not hold her past against her in a way that harmed her chance at a career. If he denied her this case, what of the ones after? Would he continue to veto her on significant cases, so that she never built up a record impressive enough for promotion? By his sense of honor, Keith was required to hand her adequate opportunity.

Besides, the fact was the evidence suggested the arson could actually be a case of attempted murder, and that meant there was procedural precedent for assigning the investigation away from the arson department. And Keith preferred to operate by procedure rather than political maneuvering. He knew it ought to be given to a higher-grade detective on the force, but that didn't matter. No one else on the force had the gall (or recklessness) to tangle themselves up with anyone bearing the name of Russo.

Seeing that Maria was about to lash out with a few more heated complaints, and Tick was growing distressed, and Nico's patience was wearing thin, Keith held up a hand to still the three guests in his office. Rarely speaking gave him a strong skill for nonverbal commands. Just the gesture had them falling silent and turning their attention to him.

He looked at Maria for a long moment. Then, he pointed at her and said,"...Be cautious with this chance."

Maria's expression lit up. The anger from a minute ago evaporated, and she beamed at her commander, her arms pumping upward in excitement. Her voice filling the whole room, she cheered, "I will, just you wait and see, amigo. I won't let you down. Oh, thank you, thank you, amigo."

Keith tilted his head towards the door, indicating that they could leave now. Maria spun on her heel and hurried to the door, eager to start the interesting case she'd wanted to clinch for so long. Tick smiled at his superior and snipped his trademark scissors once.

"_Thanks_, Mr. Keith. We won't let you down. _Promise_." He said, before turning and following his partner towards the exit.

As the two walked out, their chattering about plans to call up Ricardo Russo for an interview could be heard in the commander's room for a minute until they left earshot. When silence finally overtook the room, Nico turned to his commander and frowned.

His own expression solemn, Keith shrugged. Leaning back in his chair, he opened up his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of cigars. He removed one for himself and offered a second to Nico. Technically, they weren't allowed to smoke in the public building, but Keith trusted the few people with whom he shared the old-fashioned, illicit activity.

Nico's lips thinned, his eyes hardening as he took the cigar from Keith's hand and held it between his fingers. "This is going to come back and bite us. You know that."

Keith's response was the flick of his lighter, and the soft sizzle of the flame against the tip of his cigar.

Nico held out his cigar to catch the tip of the Gandor's light. "Guess that's why you're in charge. If things get too bad, I'll take care of it. Personally."

Acknowledging Nico's prowess, and the threat threaded through the statement, Keith placed his smoke between his lips and nodded. He turned in his chair to gaze out the nearby windowpane at the city below, the one he'd been tasked with protecting.

In silence, the two men dragged on their cigars and wafting their smoke towards the sunlit office window, enjoying together their last moments of peace before the impending strife.

* * *

"Hmm? They're here _already_? That's rather strange, don't you think?"

The pair of officers had placed a call to the young Ricardo Russo only fifteen minutes prior, and they hadn't even reached the actual person. Instead, they had to leave a message with a lawyer attached to Ricardo's family, who promised to relay the orders at once. Neither Tick nor Maria expected a prompt response, despite the lawyer's reassurance, but a call from a fellow officer announcing that Ricardo Russo and an associate had arrived proved them wrong.

_Snip-snip! _Tick cut at the air, free to wield his scissors at the sanctuary of his own desk. The other police officers weren't fond of it, but in order to appease the prized interrogation specialist, no one said a word. He leaned back in his chair, watching the motion of his scissors intently, as if he could find the answer in their jagged path.

On top of his desk, Maria had sat herself down, legs kicking as they dangled over the side. Between her fingers, she rolled a metallic pen, the tempo increasing as she talked about the new development in their investigation.

"Real strange indeed, amigo. In fact, I'd say it's very _suspicious_, wouldn't you?"

"I _would_, yes, Maria." Tick said, snipping towards her direction. "How long do you want to keep them waiting for us?"

Maria thought it over. She liked the idea of keeping them in an interview room for a long time - as long as she could get away with, without her superiors chewing her out. Let the kid and the "associate" sweat, get them good and ready for her to break them down. She had no idea what Ricardo's character was like, but she felt confident she could slash through any pretenses. Why the supposed _victim _of the crime would be worthy of interrogating, she didn't know, but it _sounded _rather thrilling to her.

However, since she wasn't the most experienced of the duo, she answered, "What do you think, amigo? You're the expert of this, right? How long to make them crack, amigo?"

"Mm, _well_, since they came in themselves, they probably aren't worrying too much. Which means keeping them longer won't really do _much. _I mean, he can't be a _suspect _in his own attempted murder." Tick said. He wasn't too fond of these psychological interrogation techniques anyway; the bonds were too intangible, and he couldn't directly influence and feel when the victim broke down. Making the suspect wait for a long period of time was a favorite of some officers, but not Tick Jefferson.

Despite her prior thoughts to the contrary, Tick's opinion pumped Maria with enthusiasm. Sure, keeping them waiting and suffering was exciting, but not having to wait around and being able to get down to business? That was even more exhilarating. They'd already wasted enough time with pointless, annoying departmental politics, and Maria was eager to hurry up with the job.

She hopped down from Tick's desk and spun around once. She leaned over her still-sitting partner and reached out to cover his scissor-wielding hand with her palm, her fingers curling around his, so that she too held sway over the weapon's handle.

Grinning, she said, "Good idea, amigo. And if they _don't _talk, and there _is _something fishy about our 'victims,' then you can just give them a bit of _snip-snipping _and they'll be talking in no time."

He smiled back, and together they opened and closed his scissors in a decisive snap.

"Alright, Maria. Let's _go _for it."

* * *

"Fascinating! Isn't it just enthralling? They've put up all these walls, and left us with no window, no source of natural sunlight. We are totally and utterly boxed in a cage of the unnatural. How amazing, this is."

"I wouldn't have expected you to smile at being kept somewhere _unnatural_."

"But of course you should. Because look, even though they try to keep it manufactured, they are doomed to fail. Even this room is made of brick, which comes from the materials of the earth. You can almost hear some architect laughing in the face of the sun, telling himself, 'now they will be trapped, cut off from nature.' But oh, he's wrong! And it just reminds us we can't escape nature. Never, ever, ever."

"This is why I brought you along, you know."

"And here I thought it was because I refused to leave. Why's that?"

"I daresay no interrogator will ever be a match for you."

"You flatter me! Thank you, Ricardo."

A burst of laughter filled the room, from the lips of the tall man who stood with one hand pressed against the cold, brick wall. Dressed in a suit, his long red hair pulled back, eyes painted an unnatural red - he struck an unusual and discomforting image.

Of course, the man's companion wasn't the pinnacle of normality either. The kid also adorned a suit, which was stranger still, since Ricardo appeared no older than thirteen years of age. Despite the heir's youth, the kid sat in the rickety chair with a proper posture, hands folded atop the room's single, gray table. Unlike the cheerful bodyguard, Ricardo's expression held only the faintest trace of a smile.

_Click! _

Looking at the moving door handle, Ricardo commented, "Sounds like they're finally here. Try to refrain from getting us both arrested."

"Whatever Master Ricardo _says,_" Christopher sang, stretching out the last word like a tune.

The door burst open, and Maria sprung in, ready to make a strong and energetic first impression on her investigative subjects. She planted her hand firmly on the hilt of her sword; though she wasn't allowed to draw it, _they _didn't know that, and she hoped the threat was obvious. Besides, it wasn't an empty threat. Maria wouldn't hesitate to circumvent policy if it meant victory for her case.

Tick followed in after, and though his entrance was remarkably less enthusiastic, he made up for it by casually snipping the scissors held at his side, smile never waning. No matter how low-key he made himself, the eerie air about him never subsided, always sowing unease in the people in his company.

At the sight of the two individuals in the room, Maria did a double-take. She'd expected some drab lawyer, or a polished guardian, to accompany the teen through questioning. What she saw instead - well, Maria didn't know _what _to make of the image of the man. Determined to get to the bottom of the matter, she thrust her arm out to dramatically point at the older individual.

"And who might you be, amigo?"

Christopher's eyes brightened, and his smile stretched wider. He tapped his fingers against the wall, brushing against that once-natural and now confining material.

"Oh, wow! How amazing. Did you just call me your _amigo_? I've never made a friend this quickly. What a fantastic day this is for me! My name is Christopher, and I'm Master Ricardo's bodyguard. And what's your name, new friend?" Christopher exclaimed, overjoyed that someone actually called _him _a friend first. It was unprecedented, and it automatically solidified the female officer as an ally to him.

"Huh?" Maria said, staring at the enthusiastic man. She didn't think anyone would be that cheerful while being in the hands of the police, even if just for standard inquiries. It took her a second before she recovered from her surprise. "I'm Officer Barcelito, amigo. And this is Officer Jefferson."

Christopher shook his head. "No, no, that won't do. Friends should know each other's first names, right? I told you mine, now tell me - what's yours?"

After considering, Maria decided she could not argue with that line of logic. "You can call me Maria if you want, amigo."

Though Tick hadn't gained 'friend' status, and he didn't follow Christopher's reasoning, he preferred using his first name. So he chimed in, "And you may call me _Tick_. We're just here to ask you a few questions."

Moving away from the wall, Christopher walked back over to the interrogation table to stand behind where Ricardo was sitting. He placed a hand on the back of the chair, a deliberate and obvious gesture of protection.

"That doesn't seem quite right. Since when do friends subject their friends to interviews? You don't ask a friend questions like this." He said.

Maria scoffed. "Well of course they do, amigo. How else does anyone learn anything about anybody? You can't _become _friends if you don't ask questions."

"Not in a room like _this_, they don't. Perhaps we can go outside, where it's much nicer, much more _natural_. Wouldn't it be nice to talk out there, just us newfound friends?"

"Nope, can't do that, no way, amigo. You're in _our _territory, and that's the way it's going to stay. Procedure, amigo."

"But it's such beautiful weather out. Shame to waste it, don't you think?"

Though supposedly the main topic of the questioning, Ricardo looked down at the table, utterly ignored, and scraped one finger absently over the metallic surface. This happened often when accompanied by Chris, enough so that it now failed to surprise or amuse. _'Let's hurry this up already,' _The Russo heir thought.

"It's a shame, but it'll have to do, amigo. Now stop arguing, before I make you unable to argue. Understand, amigo?"

"Ah, what's this? A threat? Well, in that -"

_Snip!_

Tick interrupted the rapidly devolving conversation with a loud slice of his scissors, which he held out towards the two visitors in order to get their attention. He didn't like losing command of a questioning, even one that wasn't at the level of interrogation he usually performed. Letting the subject gain the upper hand, even for a moment, could ruin an entire session.

With a smile that contrasted sharply with the gesture he just made, Tick said, "How about this? We'll ask a few questions, and then we can all go outside some _other _time together. Does that sound okay?"

Before Christopher could speak up, Ricardo decided to accept the deal and put to rest the ridiculous affair. "That's fine. I intend for this to be a short visit, anyway. I already know what this is regarding, and there's no point to me being here."

Wanting to stop the kid before there were any further admittances, Maria placed her hands down on the edge of the table and said, "Then I'll have to read you your Miranda rights. Procedure, amigo."

Ricardo nodded, and with that, Maria pulled out the little card she carried at all times that listed the proper warnings and rights. She didn't think she needed them, since she memorized the whole list back in the academy, but Nico made her read off it anyway. Something about how she'd added her own flourishes in the past, made paperwork a headache for some lawyers. She didn't want to upset her sergeant any more today, especially not after Keith had generously given her this opportunity, so she read each item slowly, carefully, until it was at completion.

When she finished, she launched into her first question. "Alright, amigo, if you know so much, then what do you think this is about? And how would you know already?"

Ricardo met her intense gaze straight on, unperturbed. "It's about the fire at the lawyer's place, obviously. I had an appointment, and now it's burned down? Of course I'd be questioned."

"Then why didn't you contact the department right away, amigo? Spare us the trouble?"

"Because my relatives _are _the department. And they didn't want me questioned, much less coming in myself."

"Then why are you here, amigo? If your family policy is against it?"

"Because I don't _care _about family policy. Because their opposition doesn't matter at all." Ricardo said, eyes growing cold at the mere mention of the family.

Observing, Tick nodded once, confirming for himself something he'd already suspected. He hoped Maria knew enough to move to a new line of questioning, because Ricardo's familial bonds were thin to none, probably broken long ago. There was no point in trying to push that point. Quietly, he opened and closed his scissors. How interesting, it was, to watch another person discover someone else's bonds. He'd never watched the process from this end before. Though of course, the light questioning wasn't anything like his _usual _process.

Maria, however, wasn't so quick to notice this. "Then why do you have a family bodyguard with you, amigo? If you didn't care, you'd have come alone."

"Christopher isn't just a _bodyguard_, officer." Ricardo said, smiling wryly. "He's also a _friend_."

Now, a question later than her partner, she saw the need to switch tactics. "How about you tell me what you were supposed to do at the office, amigo? Weird that you set up a late-night appointment. Who would know about that, amigo?"

Ricardo shrugged. "We were going to discuss terms of the estate, I guess. Financial ownership of some holdings, a bunch of ultimately unimportant stuff." Despite being currently made up mostly of public servants, the Russos maintained a great deal of old money, from successful business practices done ages ago.

The heir to this fortune continued, "It's not weird. My relatives like to pretend this stuff isn't happening, so they schedule these meetings at night. And who'd know about it? Everyone, probably. Most of the Russos don't know how to keep their mouths shut. The meeting was cancelled because of a snag in the paperwork, and everyone probably knew that too."

"Do you really dislike your family that much, amigo? For a kid, that's pretty harsh, whatever the truth is."

"I don't hate the _family_, exactly. If I loathed the family name itself, I wouldn't be trying to reform it, which is what the meeting was about."

"How can a kid like you reform a family? And reform from what, amigo? Aren't you supposed to be all noble and a bunch of police workers and stuff?" Maria asked, confused.

Ricardo frowned. "That's not important. In a few years, you'll see anyway. It's private business, okay?"

"It's our business if someone tried to kill you because of it, amigo. Are these reforms enough to make someone attempt murder, amigo?"

A shrug. "Maybe. Probably. You ought to ask whoever committed it. I mean, how would _I _know?"

Maria narrowed her eyes. "I know that, amigo. And I _will_ ask, when you help me figure out who did it. Now, who would want to kill you, amigo?"

"I don't know. No one would be that stupid, I'd think, given that Christopher is always with me."

At the mention of his name, Christopher, who'd struggled to keep quiet and let Ricardo do the talking as they'd previously agreed upon, threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh, to think anyone would want to mess with you when I'm around. It's hilarious. Laughable. That kind of illogic action would have to be a crime against nature. And so I'd strike it down, of course." He said. Then, looking at Maria, he added, "No one has made an attempt. I'd have brought the person here myself, in restraints, if they had."

"You're pretty cocky about that, amigo."

"Shouldn't I be? Honesty about one's own abilities is a virtue. Let's not lie to one another about what's going on. As friends, we should be open, right?"

Maria nodded and grinned as well. "Of course, amigo. And so _honestly_, I think there's something weird going on here. And I'm going to find out what it is."

_Snip-snip! _To reaffirm the point, Tick smiled and cut his scissors in the direction of the young Russo, the temperature about him dropping significantly, so that just looking at him elicited chills. He'd stood back to let Maria take charge on the interview, since she needed the experience. Not to mention, he liked watching her go through the process, learning new things and having fun despite the serious nature of the matter. But it only took one motion to remind everyone in the room that the second officer posed an even greater threat in this questioning.

Standing up, Ricardo glanced at Christopher and said, "I think we'll be going now. If you don't let us go, you'll be getting some unpleasant calls."

Maria laughed. "You think I care about calls, amigo? This is my case, and I run it like I want. Your threats aren't important, not important at _all_, amigo."

With a joyless smile, Ricardo responded, "Your boss might feel differently."

Seeing the anger cross Maria's face, that hot temper about to spill over at any minute, Tick went to his partner and placed his hand on the small of her back. He wasn't good at calming people down, and he didn't think he was smart enough to take her anger away, but he could step into the conversation and hope it helped.

"We'll call you back in when we know more, _okay_? If we don't like what we find, it'll be a much _different _kind of talk." He said, silver scissors reflecting the threat of his grin in its sharp, distorted blades. "But I _hope_ that next time we can meet outside for a chat. Just like we said before. As _friends_."

Christopher led his young master to the door, glad that the interview had run its course. Though he found the ordeal entertaining, he saw that Ricardo was getting annoyed, and Christopher wouldn't let his friend stay in that unpleasant situation. Though that would provide an amusement all its own, if Ricardo got into a spat with the officers. Christopher thought it'd be good for the kid to release some frustration in an argument, sometime, like young people should.

"I look forward to that day. We'll be in contact, if you aren't. Master Ricardo and I must depart now, but I thank you for giving me two new friends. I rarely make that many in one day, so this is such a treat for me." He enthused.

However, it wasn't the words that Tick and Maria paid attention to, despite the oddity of the man's chatter. It was the fact that, when Christopher took the doorknob and turned it, the door opened without a hitch. As per standard, they'd locked the door after coming in, and no one was supposed to be able to unlock it but them. The officers exchanged glances, knowing at once what the event meant. Someone within the department had unlocked the interview room door for Ricardo. Probably for show more than actual practicality, making it obvious so that the officers _had _to notice and draw the conclusion that people on the inside backed the young Ricardo Russo.

With a wave, Christopher and Ricardo departed from the interview room, leaving the partners to watch them leave, wondering when exactly they'd forfeited control of the process.

When the door swung shut, Maria spun around and placed her hands on her hips, looking wide-eyed at her partner. "I don't like this, amigo. I don't like this one bit. There's something weird about them, and I just know it, know it for _sure_, amigo. What do you think?"

Tick slid his fingers in and out of the circular handles of his scissors, rolling his skin over the smooth metal surface. "I _think_, that Mr. Nico had some good points. There's something _strange _about the Russos. I'm not too smart, but even _I_ can see we don't have the whole truth. But I also think we can figure it out and solve this case. Because I _believe _in you, Maria."

Expression lighting up, her grin growing, Maria exclaimed, "Really, amigo? You really do? You thought I did good?"

"I _did_, Maria. _Very_ good, in fact."

"Wow, thank you, thank you, amigo."

With a sudden movement, Maria clapped both hands down on Tick's shoulders, her strong fingers holding firm onto her partner. Joy radiated from her, a warm and vivid aura that made her even more beautiful than usual. Tick smiled at the sight, wondering whether he could someday feel the bonds that led to that sensation, that aesthetic appearance.

"You believe in me, Mr. Keith believes in me, and _I _believe in me, amigo. That's three whole people. I'm sure to not fail now, amigo, absolutely certain. I'm not going to let anyone down, and we're going to solve this case. We'll do it together. Okay, amigo?"

"But _Maria_, I don't think you could ever let me down. So long as you try real hard, I can believe that you're a good person."

Unabashed, Maria repositioned herself so that she could pull her partner into an energetic embrace, holding him tight. Tick suppressed a small cry, his face shading pink, not used to having someone else hold him. Even if Maria was the sort to make bold gestures, he still hadn't expected a hug like that.

"You're too kind, too kind, amigo! But your faith in me is what gives me the ability to do this. So thank you so much, amigo. I believe in you too. I believe in _us_, that we can solve this, amigo."

Catching his breath, Tick said, "_Okay_, Maria. Then we'll solve it for sure."

"You think so, amigo?"

"Of course. We have to. Because, you see, I believe in _us, _too. Which means that as long as there _is _an us, and we're together on this - we'll never fail."

* * *

A/N: Well, I'll hopefully be back to a more regular update schedule now. Thanks for reading!


	16. Doubts Befall the District Attorney

Luck Gandor crossed another name off his list.

Barely past noon, and already he'd expended over half of his contacts in the Russos' precinct, each more disappointing than the last. Earlier, Luck had attended a breakfast meeting with one of the homicide sergeants he knew, and directly afterwards, he stopped into a coffee shop and "just happened" to run into a prosecutor with close ties to the precinct. They had been his two most promising leads - reputable men with keen eyes and a favorable opinion of the young district attorney. And yet, when he'd tried to slip in a question about the recent psychological studies, or even hinted at Ladd Russo, both of his acquaintances shut down entirely.

For the rest of his contacts, meager as that number was, Luck opted to place phone calls, under the pretense of needing information for some state-issued forms. He weaved inquiries about the going-ons of the precinct in between meaningless small talk, deftly striking for information before retreating to a safe topic once more. His skill at eliciting facts from his targets was what defined his success as an attorney; he knew the perfect facade, the precise wording, the exact timing required to convince anyone to spill information for him.

"So why am I turning up nothing?" Luck asked himself, leaning back in his office chair and staring up at the ceiling. With his eyes, he traced the pattern of thin, dark cracks that split the old, white tile like hairline fractures. He knew each line, every break, better than the creases of his own flesh. Luck's eyes narrowed. Was he imagining things, or had the ceiling splintered more since yesterday?

He shook his head, telling himself it was only the lack of sleep seeping into his sense of perception. Or perhaps he spent too much time cooped up in the office. Luck wanted to call up Keith, who always proved a steady rock during times of uncertainty, but the last time they'd spoken, his older brother alluded to being caught up in a departmental mess. Luck took the news to mean Keith would be tied up for a while, but it was always hard to tell with the quiet man.

Only a few more names remained on his list, but he doubted any of them would speak up. They'd been long-shots, men he barely knew, but that he figured he wouldn't have to call on anyway. Times like this, he wished he maintained more associates outside of his brother's precinct. About half his lack of contacts came from his disdain for the higher-ups in the Russo precinct. The other half came from the general resentment towards Luck. Hard to make friends, when everyone assumed his familial ties had landed the excessively young man his position. They weren't entirely wrong, either.

Luck returned his focus to the list, running a finger over the smooth graphite of the next scrawled name. A smear of gray sunk into his skin, like a monochrome branding. He wondered if perhaps no one divulged information because there _was _no information to be had. What if he'd been correct all along, and this was some ruse on Eve's part? Or she'd simply been mistaken, her judgment tainted by her brother's predicament?

That appeared the most likely answer, and he wanted to doubt once more his own promise to pursue the matter. But when it came down to it, he craved a task to throw his mind into, to distract him. Despite its logical issues, he'd thrown himself into the investigation, almost hoping it would consume him. All in all, that was the greatest source of his disappointment in his lack of success.

_Ring-ring._

His office phone, which sat atop his desk, let out a shrill noise. Luck winced, and made a mental note to get it repaired. He wondered who could be calling; his schedule was fairly clear for the day, and he hadn't been expecting any calls. Any number that wasn't previously cleared by him automatically went to his personal assistant, so if his desk phone rang, he knew it was either someone important or one of his close friends or family.

_Ring._

He picked it up and leaned back in his chair. "Hello, District Attorney's office. Luck Gandor speaking."

"Interesting - I see I've caught you in, Mr. Gandor. And here I'd planned to leave a message. Well, no matter."

The moment he heard the familiar voice, Luck's blood turned to ice, goosebumps travelling over his skin and a chill running up his spine. Even his heartbeat, which had been so unbearably loud lately, seemed to freeze for just a second.

"Mr. Sukiart. To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

It was a voice everyone connected to the department would recognize at once, a name that everyone knew but few ever wanted to speak aloud. Ronnie Sukiart, technically the head of internal affairs for the Martillo Department, unofficially the man who held the career of every city employee in his hands. He stood as head of an interdepartmental task-force that was kept hushed, one that gathered information and acted as a watchdog for the police force as a whole. Rumor was that the instant anything happened that could be deemed troublesome, Ronnie Sukiart knew everything there was to know about it. No one knew how he kept tabs on so many people so immaculately, and it lent an air of mysticism to the intimidating reputation of the man.

To receive a call personally, Luck couldn't help but think that had to be bad news. He hadn't cleared Ronnie's number to come straight through to his office, and he had no idea how he'd circumvented that. If it was an intimidation tactic, it achieved its goal. Luck's fingers clutched the phone receiver so tightly, his knuckles ached.

From the other side of the line, Ronnie answered, "Hm, so you have not guessed already? Or perhaps this is one of your 'polite' gestures. No matter. I don't wish to waste words. This is about your inquiry into the Russo precinct."

Luck breathed a sigh of relief, and he felt the warmth return to his body. Was that all Ronnie wanted? He'd braced himself for the worst. Whatever the problem was, if it related to that, it would be easily repairable. It seemed Ronnie's reputation proved accurate. Luck had only been looking into the matter for half a day, and already, Ronnie had caught wind of it.

"I'm afraid I don't know what your concern with that is." Luck responded, careful not to deny Ronnie's assertion. He harbored no doubts that Ronnie possessed proof, or at least extensive evidence, of Luck's actions against the Russos.

"No? Let me make it simple. You'll have to stop asking into it."

Stuck in a difficult situation, Luck bit his lip, looking again at his list of names. He didn't want to stop the investigation, even if it hadn't been turning up any actual information. At the same time, refusing to comply with Ronnie Sukiart would most likely end poorly for him.

Steering away from having to give a direct answer, Luck said, "And may I ask why?"

"Are you asking me to reveal confidential information? How bold of you. Well, no matter. I cannot do that."

So that was it. "Confidential information" implied a secret investigation, and if it was internal affairs conducting it, then there was trouble brewing somewhere in the Russo precinct. Luck must have stepped on some toes, and now the watchdogs wanted him off their turf. Luck sighed. Oh, how he hated politics. By accepting the position of district attorney, he'd essentially condemned himself to dealing with political maneuvering, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it any.

"Maybe we could strike a deal. Trade information. I have some news that you might be interested in obtaining." He said, thinking of Eve. To have Ronnie on his side would be of enormous benefit to his endeavors, and if it went well, it'd be smart to have such a man as an ally.

"You mean information about the Genoard siblings, I presume."

The statement was all that was necessary to kill that trace of hope. If Ronnie already knew the two Genoards were tied up in the Russo precinct's issues, then he undoubtedly also knew the specifics that Luck had to offer.

"Fine. You've made your point, Mr. Sukiart."

"And yet, you have not given your answer. I thought you more keen on the situation's importance than that. Well, no matter."

"If you cannot even tell me what the 'situation' is regarding, then I do not see how I can be confident enough to give an answer."

"That's no concern of yours."

"It is when a young girl comes to my office, afraid for her career, because she's convinced _someone _is keeping this under wraps."

Luck's voice turned sharp, to show that he was not going to simply back down. The NYPD's internal affairs had no jurisdiction over the district attorney's actions. How far out of its boundaries had this interdepartmental effort gone? His accusation rang clear. He had no reason to believe that Ronnie wasn't the one orchestrating the cover-up.

"...I see. Let us just say that the Russo department is under heavy observation at the moment. Your obvious maneuvering could draw attention to our own actions."

"Not good enough. Tell me who you're investigating."

"You don't know yet? Hm, of course. No matter. It might as well be everyone, Mr. Gandor."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to. Now, will you desist, or won't you?"

"I can't. I'm sorry."

A long silence overtook the other side of the line, and Luck felt drops of sweat form on his forehead. He knew he ought to agree with Ronnie and drop the matter; it would be the best move for his career. But thinking about Eve's persistence, and the strangely stone-walled responses he'd received to his questioning, Luck couldn't in good conscience let go of the matter. Besides, he didn't appreciate being ordered around, regardless of how powerful the person giving the orders was.

When the reply finally came, it was with a darker tone. "I see. I didn't want to have to do this. Well, no matter."

Luck's breath caught. "Do what, exactly, Mr. Sukiart?"

"This call could have been about one of two things. You are happy that it was about the Russo precinct, yes? But it could very well have been about your _other _issue."

Slowly, Luck said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ah, so that's how you are handling it? Well, no matter. You know what you've done. I won't say it aloud."

"If you know, why haven't you done anything?" Luck said, and he found his throat suddenly dry.

"We have our reasons."

"So I take it this is a threat, then? Surely, you can come out and say _that _aloud."

"A statement of fact. You can draw your own conclusions, can't you? Well, no matter."

"I think I'm done with this call."

"That seems the case, yes. I trust you will not get in our way in the future."

"Of course, Mr. Sukiart. But please understand that I am very displeased with how your team is handling this investigation."

"No matter. If you stick to your word, this information on you will be discarded. Good day, Mr. Gandor."

_Click._

The other line went dead, leaving Luck sitting there with the receiver still stuck in his hand, the object pressing deep into his palm and leaving a dark impression.

How much was he expected to believe? After all, anyone could claim they had some vague 'information' on another person. Without proof, Luck had no reason to believe it was anything but a bluff. But he thought back to that voice, to the certainty that lent such incredible gravity to Ronnie's words, and he knew, in the depths of his heart, that Ronnie spoke the truth. Internal Affairs, for whatever its outrageous breach of protocol and limits, had dirt on him that could ruin his life.

Panic wanted to set in, but Luck was well trained in keeping his cool. The only indication of his frustration was the intensity with which he squeezed the phone receiver, the tight clamp of his jaw that made his teeth grind painfully together.

A choice opened up before him. He could pursue the investigation, and risk not just his career, but the entire life and spotless reputation he'd made for himself. Or, he could drop it, and completely abandon his conscience and sense of morality, not to mention betray the word he'd given to Eve Genoard. At this point in his life, Luck felt he only held an iota of ethics, still had only a scrap of the integrity he pretended to hold so dear. If he gave this up, no matter how inconsequential the investigation actually was to him, then he'd be letting go of that remnant of morality as well.

From his shaking hands, the phone receiver slipped, falling to the desktop with a clatter. Luck barely registered the noise, though. All he could see was his fingers spread wide apart, held in front of his face, his life slipping through them. Could he rebuild what he'd lost with this investigation, this one choice made out of personal conviction rather than professional necessity? Would he ever have the chance again, if he forfeited this? And even if some dirty information on him got leaked - could he not look to his actions done to fight this corruption as his redemption?

Luck buried his face in his hands, and he groaned. Everything was falling apart around him, and he was powerless to do anything. Even if he wanted to continue the investigation, he had no more routes to pursue, no other ideas upon which to act. Everywhere he turned, he was faced with a dead end. Just a week ago, he'd been going about his business like usual, and now he couldn't go a few minutes without something going wrong.

Unwilling to stay and sulk, though that's all he wanted to do at the moment, Luck got up from his seat and went to inform his assistant that he'd be out for a walk. Maybe some fresh air would help clear his head, help him make a decision. He could only hope so, anyway. Though Luck couldn't help but wonder if clarity would ever be in the cards for him again, once this all blew over.

_'_If _this all blows over,' _He corrected himself.

Shrugging on his jacket, Luck left behind the cracked ceiling and the shrill phone and the smudged list of crossed out names, to venture instead out into the familiar commotion of the city streets.

* * *

A/N: Sorry updates have been slower lately. Also, as a side note, I couldn't find a clear consensus on how to spell Ronnie's surname, so I settled on the one I found given most often. Well, thanks for reading!


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